From Hell's Heart
by gtamaster316
Summary: AU First Contact War. It was 48 years of endless slaughter and death. And from the pain and suffering of such unprecedented conflict, emerged an unprecedented plot, born of hate, to bring it all to an end...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction made with the hope of entertaining and killing some time. Mass Effect and the Mass Effect franchise is the sole property of Bioware. Hope you all enjoy!

**From Hell's Heart**

Chapter 1: Without End

**War does not determine who is right - only who is left. **  
><span>Bertrand Russell<span>

_It was the 48th year since first contact, since the war began. For nearly five decades, planets have burned, stars have died, and billions have perished. But there are horrors, more subtle and infinitely more terrible, that such conflict breeds in the hearts of men, then could be found upon the corpses of a thousand worlds torn asunder..._

The first thing that often strikes new-comers to space is not the vastness. The truth is, most space-faring species mentally prepared themselves for that particular characteristic of the universe centuries prior to achieving interstellar travel by blowing all their reverence for scale in their early days of orbital flight. No, the truly awe-inspiring, terror-inducing aspect of the absolute-zero vacuum was just how mind-numbingly empty it was. Looking up into the night sky from any world, staring at the endless expanse of stars, one gained the impression that space was filled to the brim things to see, places to go, and others to meet who looked into the stars and viewed the same thing. Then you got into the black and pointed yourself in the direction of one of those points of light you so dreamed to visit. Whether it was a nearby sun only several hours away, or a distant one several years or decades away, the first thing one was sure to note was that during that transit from point A to point B, there wasn't a damn thing to look at in between. Depending on the length of the trip, its the kind of thing that can drive any reasonable sapient to madness, no matter the company kept or distraction provided.

It was this very distressing aspect to the condition of space travel that made coming upon interesting things to witness such momentous occasions. Especially if that thing to see is a normally empty star system littered with the corpses of dozens of ships. A terrible, yet strangely beautiful vision to behold, the angular hulls of war vessels composed of varying tonnages ranging from fighters to a small hand-full of massive dreadnaughts littered about the in a decaying orbit surrounding a neutron star. Each one marked with the normal signs of space combat: armor warped and twisted by mass accelerator weapons, carbon scoring from high-energy laser and particle weapons, larger vessels literally ripped apart by disruptor torpedoes. Tens of thousands dead, for the sake of controlling the precious element zero held within the debris field of the remnant of a supernova. And by the looks of things, they would not be the last to give their lives in this conflict without end.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy to be found in this morbid graveyard was the impression left by the number of ships: nobody had won. Among the decaying corpses of these once mighty leviathans was the horrid implication that the number of wrecked hulks represented the size of an average task force dedicated to seizing and holding areas of strategic importance. It was, in a greater sense, representative of this war as a whole for the past 48 years. Countless lives, hundreds of ships, entire sectors of space torn apart, all for a handful of points of light in the night sky that changed hands too frequently for anyone to gain advantage. Millions upon millions dead...all for nothing. No funeral pyre was great enough, no sacred games holy enough, no songs of mourning tragic enough. An entire generation gone, with all of time and space to act as their cold, silent mausoleum.

It was the story of this terrible war, one not seen by the civilized galaxy for more than a thousand years. Two enemies, of terrifying skill and power, grappled and struck at one another in mortal combat, neither really remembering the reasons it started, consumed in simply continuing on since they had been doing so for more than a generation, for no cause other than the fact that they no longer knew how to stop. Their battle had ceased to be a simple quarrel between neighboring powers, it had become a vendetta of blood.

It was in such situations, such senseless bloodshed, that the most heinous of wounds formed. Not simply wounds of flesh, but wounds of spirit and mind, that marks all souls, from entire nations to solitary men and women touched by such horrors. And from such wounds, sapient minds once ruled by reason, turn slowly to quiet, terrible rage. And in the such transformations, intent transformed from patriotism and honor, to vengeance...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Dance with the Devil**

Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect. Bioware does. Etc. etc. don't sue me.

_You lived what anybody gets, Bernie. You got a lifetime. No more. No less. _

_-_Death, in _Sandman_ #43: "Brief Lives: 3"

Over the course of her long, somewhat colorful existence, Aria T'Loak had only been truly worried about a situation twice. The first was about 600 years ago, when she finally launched her long-awaited coup de'tat against Patriarch. Though she would never admit such concern to anyone, even on pain of death, when the climactic moment came in her overthrow of the once mighty Krogan potentate, her nerves nearly got the best of her when the time came to strike him down. Even today, centuries after her successful overthrow by means of biotically crushed heart, the thought of her extremely narrow victory still gave her intermittent shudders of unease.

The second was nearly 5 decades ago, when word first leaked out about the large-scale general mobilization of the Turian space and land forces. At the time, word had not yet reached the wider cosmos of the existence of Palaven's new enemy, and for an instant Aria feared the Citadel had at long last grown weary enough of the chaotic Terminus Systems and the recently cast out Batarian Hegemony to send in a fleet to eradicate the disparate, divided forces loosely affiliated under the influence of Omega, and by extension Aria.

But fear of this potential threat ultimately turned to elation upon discovery of a new force capable of challenging the Hierarchy. The reason for this elation was how the Turians' challenge translated into opportunity for the Asari's vast criminal empire, and the lesser monopolies that held sway in the Terminus. As more and more of the Citadel's historic peacekeeping force was transferred to make war upon the armies and navies of Earth, the Council subsequently was forced to scale back its efforts to rein in the less legitimate enterprises that took place in the independent regions of the galaxy. Border worlds once heavily policed by the (primarily) Turian navy were now left largely abandoned, opening up unprecedented markets for illicit activity. Red sand, piracy, smuggling, slave trafficking, any horrid vice an intelligent being could dream of was experiencing an incredible golden age unseen for a millennia.

At any other point in her life though, Aria could not remember feeling anything other than the serene calm of someone totally at peace with herself and situation. The fact that her situation involved absolute power and impossibly massive wealth certainly made it easier, but it was an admirable state of mind none the less. Surveying the mass of gyrating bodies moving in sync with the pulsing rhythm in the night club beneath her private sanctum, the criminal lord's thoughts turned slowly to the upcoming events of the day.

"What do I have scheduled for today underling?"

The nearby Batarian, who acted as one of many of Aria's all-purpose aides, quickly glanced at his omni-tool.

"In 2 hours you have a meeting scheduled with Garm to address the issue of the recent Blood Pack seizure of Eclipse contraband, and your meeting with Ambassador Alexander Baskov is in 28 minutes," he replied, answering with the crisp efficiency Aria demanded of all those she allowed to draw breath in her presence.

Aria's left eye brow raised a fraction of an inch before allowing herself a small ghost of a smile at the not unpleasant familiarity of the name. A reaction that would have left her associates speechless were they to witness it, overwhelmed by the astonishing thought that Aria was capable of reflecting on any being with something approaching fondness who was not herself. Quickly recomposing herself, she cast a sideways glance at the one who had brought her up to speed.

"Ah yes, I had nearly forgotten. Tell me, has the ambassador arrived yet?"

The Batarian's quickly scanned the holographic PC screen before meeting her eyes to respond.

"I just received a message from his ship-board VI stating that he has docked in the station upper pylon area and expects to arrive at Afterlife in 10 minutes."

Aria's ghost smile almost returned for a moment. Among the qualities she appreciated most about the ambassador, his casual understanding of her demand for punctual response was among the highest on the list. Say what you will about the Humans, they knew how to play diplomacy when it suited their purpose.

"Very good. When he arrives please escort him to my private lounge area. Don't forget to have a drink on hand upon seating him. Remember, he takes his gin straight with a twist of lime. I'll not have an important associate suffer a lack of hospitality from me," replied Aria in a bored tone, refusing to betray her anticipation of spending time with a genuinely intelligent being bringing the potential for new opportunities.

"I'll take care of it ma'am," replied the aide, tapping a few commands into his omni-toll before scurrying away to carry out his employer's bidding.

Aria returned her view to the club floor, no longer wearily glaring at debauched hedonists giving into their brief attempts to escape from the utter pointlessness of their lives, but rather to reflect on the circumstances that brought the ambassador, and humankind in general, into her affairs.

Despite the wave of magnificent fortune that swept throughout the criminal forces of the Terminus and less civilized parts of "Council Space", it briefly seemed the good times might not last. News made its way back to Aria and the independent worlds of the galaxy of defeat after defeat for the Humans as they were forced to give ground before the massive juggernaut that was the Hierarchy military. Despite a number of near miraculous victories scored against impossible odds, no matter how many ships the Earthers destroyed, 3 more flowed from dry-dock to take the place of one lost. During the 7th year of the conflict, when the Turian forces smashed their way into the mid-range colonies from the likely location of the Human homeworld, it seemed like the criminal gangs would have to look towards a return to the status quo once the Turians absorbed their new "client" race.

Luckily, it was not to be. Though it was still a mystery as to how (even the STG remained unsure after a full Salarian lifetime of investigation) the humans bypassed the entire Relay chain leading from Human controlled space to the Hierarchy proper and struck at the unguarded Turian rear, destroying the advance supply bases and an entire defense flotilla they were able to take by surprise. They then fanned out from their position, destroying material stockpiles, mining outposts, element zero processing facilities, and even a dry dock before falling back and making their return to human space. Reeling from the attack and cut off from the only supplies of dextro-compatible food within 15,000 light years (or 4 relay jumps for perspective), the Turians began a slow withdrawl out of Alliance space, leaving token space and garrison forces to maintain their holdings, thinking this borderline insane raid into their territory represented the majority of their enemy's remaining strength and they could simply finish the campaign another day at their leisure.

They were wrong. The humans struck back with the rebuilt 4th and 5th fleets during the Turian fallback, striking the Hierarchy forces after roughly half of their invasion fleet had withdrawn through the final relay jump. With the enemy fleet still crowded together in an area of space no larger than 500,000 kilometers apart, the Turian expeditionary force was not able to return to battle formation in time. With astonishingly limited losses, the Alliance obliterated nearly the entirety of the enemy forces still remaining within the original sphere of human control prior to the invasion. 48% of the expeditionary fleet, representing nearly 15% of the Turian's total operational space force was obliterated in less than 36 hours of intense fighting. The world's still garrisoned by the Turians, lacking any kind of orbital strike or logistical support, were quickly overwhelmed by the avenging Human armies.

It was a defeat not seen since the time of the Krogan's failed uprising. After 7 years of grinding their way through stubborn human defenders to what seemed like bloody, inevitable victory and millions of slain Turian soldiers and crews, the Hierarchy not only failed in its fulfilling its strategic goal, it was actually forced back to where it had started, with nothing to show from nearly a decade of bloodshed. What followed was 40 years of endless seesaw battles between the two forces, each fighting over a handful of strategically vital border regions, territory changing hands endlessly for little or nothing to show for it. There were occasional periods of frantic action between this detante, with the Turians striking hard into Alliance space proper, and the Humans sending raiding and invasion fleets deep into the Hierarchy proper. Neither situation ever lasted long, as the Turian forces were always met with the impossibly fast reaction forces of the Humans taking them by surprise, and the Human fleets being forced to withdraw from Hierarchy space when the massive size of the Turian naval forces were brought to bear on the raiders.

It was the situation that led to the magnificent era of the Terminus Systems, and led the Alliance to send a representative to meet with the infamous Aria for access to the "partnerships" they could not establish with the rest of the legitimate universe. Aria could still remember that day quite vividly...

_It had been a long time since Aria had been shocked by the sight of another species, and never for the reason she found herself shocked now. Over the course of her life, particularly in the period she had ruled over Omega, she had seen virtually every variety of every species known to the Citadel, and even a few unknowns that would make a xenobiologists lose their shit over. Never in the course of that however, had she been struck by a sense of overwhelming __**familiarity**__. Of course she had heard the rumors, hell over the past decade everyone had heard of this new enemy of the turians and their unsettling appearance, even seen a few pictures. It was however, quite another thing to see one of them sitting across from her._

_ Much that was of her species, she saw in the being who sat across from her. Facial structure, physical symmetry, same number of fingers, eyes, freakishly similar physical and skeletal form. Yet, so much was alien too. His face, covered in a layer of pale skin, was topped not with the tendril protrusions of her own species, was instead covered in a layer of thick, neatly arranged black fur along with a smaller amount forming around his jaw and neck, belying its mammalian roots. She wouldn't be surprised if more of it lay on his unusually thick arms underneath the long sleeves of his formal attire, stretched across its unusually flat, yet broad, chest and shoulders. She assumed the lack of visible mammary glands implied a sexual dimorphism, further implying that he was a male, though it was be best not to assume too quickly._

_ What struck her most however, were his eyes. Unlike the generally dark eye color of her own species, he had what appeared a pair of light gray eyes. More distressing, though he carried a smile on his lips, it did not reach the appearance in those gray ellipses beneath his hair. They betrayed nothing, other than experience and determination, and was quick to learn the truth of the old human saying "there's daggers in mens' smiles. Strange, to see so much of her own people in so alien a creature. Ah well, such are the fickle wiles of the universe._

_ Shaking herself of the unsettling musings on the alien's physical appearance, Aria leaned back in her chair, steeled a bored, imperious look in her eyes, and finally brought herself to address him._

_ "So, tell me Mr..." she began, intentionally letting the end of her sentence trailing off. An important start to the tempo of the conversation, letting her guest know that while she intended to give up her time, it was up to him to make it worth her while. The human just continued to smile, before responding._

_ "Baskov, Ms. T'Loak. Alexander Baskov, duly appointed representative of the Systems Alliance."_

_ Aria was again taken by surprise. Rather than the imprecisely mimicked vocal sounds of an electronic translator, the human had spoken the answer to her query in what sounded like fluent Armali, an Asari dialect from the most populous city-state of Thessia that served as the de-facto language of choice for Asari trade and diplomacy. While still off-balance from the revelation of the human's unexpected linguistic skills, the diplomat continued._

_ "I shall assume from the look that has just crossed your face that my superiors were correct in their assumption that this was the correct language to start our discussions with. Also, to answer the question that's probably still buzzing through your mind, yes I am a male of my species."_

_ Aria was quite unsettled at having been surprised so frequently over such a short period of time. However, refusing to allow this...man to take control of the conversation, she knew it was time to retake the initiative in this conversation. _

_ "Hmm...interesting. I see your kind has, if nothing else, something of a talent for guessing. Or do you simply read minds as well?"_

_ Chuckling (?), the Baskov retorted without missing a beat._

_ "No , nothing quite so grandiose Ms. T'Loak. I will confess that our choice to learn the language of the Armali region was a bit of a hopeful estimation, though I do have a translator device on me just in case. However, the issue of your confusion about my gender was simply, shall we say, written all over your face. I must say, the similarity between our two species' facial expressions is quite remarkable."_

_ Inwardly, Aria cursed herself. The vast majority of her time was spent with species so radically different from her own that they probably couldn't tell the difference between an Asari giving a murderous look and one having a fantastic orgasm. Now that here she sat before a being who could read her, and she realized that all this lack of practice had made her distressingly lazy in that regard. Quite unacceptable._

_ "I see. Well, at least you've got a bit perception going for you, if nothing else. Tell me though, what brings you to my humble backwater? Please make it quick though, if this isn't worth my time I have other things to occupy myself with and a limited patience for unnecessary distraction."_

_ Baskov, quite unfazed by her diplomatic gamesmanship, just continued smiling as he gave his answer._

_ "I wouldn't dream of wasting your time madam, so I'll just cut to the chase. As you're most likely aware, for the past 10 years or so, we've been engaged in something of a dispute with the forces of the Turian Hierarchy. Recently, we managed to deal a rather decisive blow and for now have sent them scurrying back to their own territory."_

_ Upon hearing this, Aria did give a slight smile at the dramatic bit of understatement that characterized the achievement of the Alliance forces._

_ "I would say it was more than just "rather decisive" Baskov. You're forces dealt the Turians the harshest blows they've experienced in nearly a thousand years. I don't think even the Krogans ever achieved such a massive victory over the Hierarchy."_

_ At this, the ambassador simply took a sip of the drink in his hand before waving his free hand somewhat dismissively._

_ "Yes, however while this was somewhat substantial to the greater galaxy, in the long run for us this was simply a delaying action. Despite driving them back, we are well aware that we can expect them to return. Palaven has had an interstellar civilization for 10 times as long as Earth, and this is reflected in both their size and industrial capacity. At this point, our only means of holding them back is by striking deep into their own territory when the situation presents itself by bypassing the relay network and putting them on the defensive while we rebuild and expand our forces."_

_ Aria quirked an eyebrow. The even more wild rumors she had been hearing, that the humans somehow found a way to strike against their enemies without using the known Mass Relay network, had been all but confirmed. She leaned forward to grab her own drink, and decided to probe a little deeper._

_ "Yes, I had heard something about that. I would be most interested to learn how your forces achieved such a feat."_

_ Baskov's smile changed, now baring his teeth, somewhat sharper than her own, before nonchalantly taking another sip._

_ "Yes I'm sure you would Ms. T'Loak. By the way, what is the name of this beverage? It is quite delightful."_

_ Aria was forced to give a small laugh at his words._

_ "Very well Baskov, keep your secrets if you must, it doesn't matter much to me at any rate. It still doesn't explain what you've come here for."_

_ Bascov's expression turned into what she assumed was a serious look._

_ "The plain and simple truth is that we're isolated. From what we understand, while the Asari and Salarians are remaining nominally neutral in this conflict, not least because it was the Turians who fired first, and the remainder of the Associate species have no desire to be involved, we find ourselves without allies or trade partners of our own. None of the legitimate galaxy wishes to trade with us, lest they risk the Hierarchy's wrath, and our knowledge of the wider galaxy is limited to what we find ourselves and a handful of navigational maps acquired from captured warships. As a result, we find ourselves coming to you to forge new partnerships in the more independent Terminus Systems."_

_ For a few minutes, Aria remained silent, taking the occasional sip from her drink, while contemplating the appropriate response to his query. While this represented a potentially amazing opportunity, it was important to understand a little more about how this would proceed._

_ "While I appreciate the situation your people find themselves in Bascov, I'm curious as to what you think I can do. No one controls the Terminus, and while I am respected, I have not official power over the factions of the Terminus."_

_ At this, Bascov's smile returned._

_ "The Council has no "official power" either, yet when they speak, every force in Citadel Space hears their words and nearly all obey. I suspect it is much the same with you. Even without formal authority, I imagine when you speak, every warlord and mercenary within several thousand light years comes scurrying forth to hear you. We are not asking you to command the Terminus on our behalf madam, only to facilitate deals with some of the more stable elements of this region. I shall admit this to you Ms. T''Loak, we need your assistance, and I imagine this assistance will translate into some very lucrative arrangements for you, if everyone plays their cards right."_

_ Aria had to admit, she was intrigued. This Humans had read the situation quite well, and understood further how to entice her. She was sorely tempted to take them up on their offer, but she wanted to know a few things before proceeding, to understand exactly who she was dealing with and the extent of his, and by extension (to a degree) his species' savvy in dealing with such situations._

_ "I must admit, you make some excellent points ambassador. But tell me, why come to me, how do you know that the assistance I might offer you is something you can trust? I doubt your kind could have known of me or Omega for that long."_

_ Aria's query caused Bascov's toothy, slightly unnerving grin, to return to his face._

_ "Simple Aria. All beings in this universe, from governments down to each individual sentient, works only for their own benefit in one way or another. The Council, for all its claims about working for the betterment of this species under its thumb, works only to maintain their own power. You, however, have the decency to admit it. There is something unsettlingly honest about that, honest enough that my government at least knows what to expect from you and your intentions."_

_ At this point, even Aria had to acknowledge a kind of grudging respect was beginning to form within her for the alien she was speaking with. As a general rule, Aria hated to admire others, since in a fashion it undermined her strength as a negotiator if she was dealing with someone she viewed as something approaching an equal. But this Human, to a degree, understood her. This lead to a kind of twisted trust between the two of them, each expecting the other act in whatever suited their own best interests. At this, Aria decided to do something she had not done for a long time, to ask a question to determine the true character of one she was coming to view as, perhaps, a true equal. _

_ "I'm curious about something human. Your kind lives, what, 150 years or so from what I understand?"_

_ Bascov's eyebrow quirked upward at the unexpected line of questioning, but warily responded, unsure of where this is going._

_ "Yes, thanks to modern medical science, my species can generally expect to live that long, if not killed off by some random act of chance. I myself am about 60 years old myself."_

_ Aria could see the confusion in his face, and so chose to pursue the final point of her question, knowing that what came forth would be an honest answer._

_ "My species lives for more than a thousand years ambassador. I myself am pushing about 750. I'm often curious about short-lived beings such as yourself. Are you ever resentful, of a cruel evolutionary process that would end your existence so abruptly, of a universe that strikes you down with so much left undone? How do you cope with so little life?"_

_ Bascov stared at her for a time. At first she was beginning to suspect that maybe she had overestimated the being sitting before her. But then, he did something she would never have expected. He turned his head upwards and gave a low, almost barking sound that she suspected was a laugh, before returning his gaze to her and giving a response she had never heard before._

_ "Why Ms. T'Loak. Your lifetime and mine are equal in length. Why the hell would I resent you for it?"_

_ Aria, for the first time in a long while, found herself genuinely confused._

_ "The same length?"_

_ Bascov took his finger and gestured out the window next to their seats that looked upon the void of space._

_ "You see that madam? That vast, endless expanse? 14 and a half billion years that has existed. 14 and a half billion years has passed before you or I took our respective first breaths. When you and I are dead and our bones turned to dust, an eternity lies before us. Compared to that infinity, 100 years and 1000 years are the same thing...a moment. A brief shining moment, like a candle in the night, before being snuffed out and forgotten. Why should I waste time resenting your moment for lasting slightly longer than my own. All either of us can do is live that moment we have with as much passion and purpose as we can possibly muster. So that, at least to ourselves, the eternity we don't exist seems utterly insignificant next to our one moment." _

_ For a time, both were silent. Bascov patiently awaiting her response, Aria staring at him with new eyes. Finally, Aria broke the detante. Leaning forward, she extended her hand and offered a smirk to the human ambassador._

_ "I think we can work out an arrangement Bascov. By the way, its called Mer'ke Thessia Wine. I'll have a crate sent to your ship. Consider it a "gesture of good will."_

_ Bascov just continued smiling._

After that first conversation, much had changed both for Omega and for the Systems Alliance. Aria arranged deals and meetings on behalf of the Systems Alliance with many of the Terminus factions. All at a handsome profit for herself as this new status quo had allowed for a break-neck expansion of her own criminal enterprises. Even the Batarian Hegemony, the most recent galactic pariah, now found itself as the beneficiary of a lucrative trade arrangement with the Alliance.

On the surface, it struck many as a most unusual arrangement. The Alliance themselves abhorred the practice of slavery and executed any slavers they found within their own border. But the humans were nothing if not practical, and there was surprisingly little conflict of interests. Between the vast militarization of human space and the passing of some piece of legislation called the Militia Act which essentially required every human in Alliance space to receive mandatory training as a impromptu citizen soldiers, the Batarians found humans notoriously difficult to take as slaves, far more trouble than it could ever be worth. And humanity, with its ever expanding resources being devoted solely to its military efforts against the Hierarchy, found that the only really reliable source of many manufactured goods would come from either home-grown colonial industries, or a civilization to act as a trading partner.

Thus, a deal was struck. In return for an exchange of certain technologies and the signing of a free trade agreement, the batarians would universally ban humans from being used as slaves within the Hegemony as well as return any humans found being used in such a fashion within their borders to Alliance care (as well as severely punish any found holding or trading in human flesh). As a result, slaver attacks virtually ceased to exist in human space, and the Batarians and Humans forged one of the most lucrative trade agreements in galactic history. Though the thought that most of their new goods were made with the sweat of slave labor left a foul taste in the collective mouth of humankind, even more so than the assorted other unsavory deals they had made with the Terminus powers, humanity found itself recognizing the necessity of doing business with someone. And if they were unwilling and incapable of changing the situation due to the conflict with the Turians, then there was no point in making an issue of it. If the council had been willing to tolerate it for generations before finally kicking them out, why should the Alliance act any different if the situation demanded otherwise?

But, these were ruminations for another day. She had a schedule to keep. Aria turned away from the view of the dance floor and decided she had kept Bascov waiting long enough. He had been waiting for at least 10 minutes by now and Aria knew full well the best time to start talking business was after about half your drink was gone...

A/N: Hey all, hope you like this new chapter, took me a long time to figure out exactly how I wanted this situation to play out. This was mainly about setting up the galaxy as it exists today, hope I didn't dump too much exposition all at once! I also made a few alterations to the first chapter. The main players in this story are going to be introduced in the next few chapters, as this story is leading to an actual plot, so please keep on board. Leave reviews! They lift my spirits.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Games of Chance, Wars of Shadow**

_*Italics = flashbacks or thoughts_

Disclaimer: Mass Effect is the property of Bioware and EA Games.

"_A true friend stabs you in the front."_  
>― <span>Oscar Wilde<span>

Alexander Bascov had seen a surprising amount of the galaxy in his 98 years of life. To much of humanity, most of what lay beyond Alliance space, minus what they discovered by their own efforts, was a mystery. As a general rule, the war with the Turian Hierarchy in turn meant exile status for humans from Citadel Space. Which, for the most part, suited the Alliance just fine. Virtually all of its trade partners were found outside the reach of the Council, and it made sense as a matter of internal security to assume vessels from beyond the Terminus systems were hostile or spies. Bascov, however, was among the few who had made an overture to the powers that be of the fortress station in the Serpent Nebula.

Following the successful drive to push the turians out of human space past Relay 314, the Alliance's efforts to contact the Council to address the (at the time) 8 year conflict bore fruit. A small delegation was granted permission to travel unmolested through 314 and make the journey to the Citadel. It took multiple relay jumps, including a resupply layover on the Asari world of Sanves, before they finally arrived at the city/space station. The subsequent confrontation with the nigh-mythical council was a day he well remembered...

_Bascov had heard many stories of the Citadel. A sizable quantity of data concerning the space-faring metropolis had been gleaned from the Turian navigation computers, though he had scarcely been willing to believe half the tales told. But, he had to confess, the truth more than matched the rumors that had been circulated about the station. Upon arrival, he and the small entourage he had been allowed were taken on a brief tour of the Citadel. The tranquil beauty of the Presidium, the frantic life of the Zakera Ward, the stalwart professionalism of C-Sec headquarters. All-in-all the station was every bit the wonder human intelligence had been led to believe._

_ However, none of the wonder or majesty of this Citadel could change the feeling of unease that crept into the hearts of the group. Around them moved the mysterious, insect creatures the inhabitants called "Keepers." An entire species, unknown and unexplained, for no discernible purpose other than the continued maintaining of the Citadel. The revelation that the station itself was abandoned by the Protheans, and with none among the citizenry questioning why or how, simply using what they found and did not understand, did nothing to settle their concerns. And of course, the guarded, hostile looks that followed them from the eyes of every turian their group encountered, the whispered words that lurked in the dark corners of the wards and behind the lips (?) of those who policed their halls. This was a place of treachery and lies, no matter the ideals or intentions spouted at them by their repetitive VI's or Council representatives._

_ After 2 days, the tours and grandstanding at last came to an end, and Bascov was at last brought before the Council itself. Stripped of his pistol, short sword, and omni-tool/blade, separated from his small contingent of guards, and forced to ride that interminably slow elevator and listen to its terrible fucking muzak, he now stood before the 3 power brokers of the galaxy. Each carried with them the collective will and power of their respective peoples, each carried themselves with a separate, unique personal countenance._

_ Tevos of the Asari, carried upon her face the look of serene calm that came of centuries of experience as a diplomat and mediator. Wise and respected, her confidence was there for all to see, though it was tinted by worry at the unexpected disruption of the galactic status quo. Valern of the Salarians, carried a wearied appearance upon his face. At 42, he was pushing the upper limits of his people's brief lives, and the pressures being exerted upon him and his government were growing increasingly tiresome._

_ And finally, there was Sparatus of the Turians. Despite the substantial differences between human and turian facial features, there was no mistaking the naked hostility that burned in his eyes and tensed body language. He seemed like a tightly bound spring, ready to lash out at whatever got in his way. And for the moment, that was the humans, and the diplomat that now stood before him. But he managed to hold his tongue as Tevos opened the meeting._

_ "This meeting of the Citadel Council is now called to order. We have in our presence, at the mutual request of the Human Systems Alliance and the governments of the Citadel Council, Alexander Bascov, empowered by his government to act as a representative of the human species. The floor formally recognizes the ambassador and invites him to make an opening statement."_

_ Nodding his head in acknowledgment of the gesture, Bascov stepped forward to the dais to address the 3 councilors._

_ "Esteemed members of the Citadel Council, on behalf of the Systems Alliance, I thank you for this opportunity to address the great recognized powers of the galaxy. While a terrible tragedy thus far has marked the necessity of this meeting, I hope this might serve as the first step in a new future for all our peoples."_

_ At this, Sparatus made a small, almost inaudible noise that sounded rather similar to a growl of anger, but continued to remain silent._

_ "As you know, for the past 8 years, armies and navies of the Alliance and Hierarchy have been engaged in a conflict of unprecedented scope. Many lives on both sides have been lost, a number of colonies directly attacked and devastated, and with the future promising only more of the same. We come before you now, in the hopes that this might be avoided, and this horrific dispute shall come to an end."_

_ During his opening words, it was becoming increasingly clear that Sparatus had grown impatient to have his say. Upon completion, Bascov leered warily at the turian councilor. Glancing at Sparatus, Tevos and Valern nodded slightly, acknowledging Sparatus._

_ "You speak of peace, yet come to our station in an armed warship, attempt to enter our chamber with soldiers and weapons. If you truly are serious about ending hostilities between us, we are prepared to issue our demands for an acceptable peace."_

_ If those present had any expectations for what might happen, this was not it. Both the Asari and Salarian councilors glanced nervously between the human and turian while Bascov's face retained its icy visage. Unsurprisingly, it was Tevos to respond first._

_ "Demands councilor? This is what you begin our discussions with?"_

_ Glancing sideways and fixing her with an almost wild look in his eyes, Sparatus decided it was best to simply speak directly at this point._

_ "The only peace that can exist between us and the humans is the peace of being vassals to the Hierarchy."_

_ Silence reigned in the hall at this declaration. Realizing this situation was rapidly heading beyond the point of no return, Valern displayed the speedy intellectual recovery time of his people and responded first._

_ "This was not what we discussed prior to this meeting Sparatus! You have no business jeopardizing these talks with..."_

_ Sparatus was quick to shut down this line of thought._

_ "I have no business! The humans force us into conflict with their recklessness, slay millions of our finest soldiers, including own sons and daughter, destroy entire fleets, and invade our space, and you have the audacity to tell me that I have no business? There is only one way we will end this conflict, and that is with these apes beneath our heel!_

_ What could be said now? Both Tevos and Valern stared, unable to comprehend how quickly this meeting had spiraled out of control. Never in the history of the council had such a thing occurred. There was protocol to recognize, talks to be had, concessions to be made but in the end there was always an inevitable return to normality. The last time there had been an outburst like this in council chambers was when the Krogan warlords stormed out and began the Rebellions. Never before had a councilor acted in such a way. Bascov's face remained unchanged._

_ What followed was an hour long diatribe between the human ambassador and turian councilor, the asari and salarian councilors no longer relevant and looking on helplessly as events rapidly progressed beyond their control. Finally, Bascov decided it was finally time to take his leave from this clearly pointless discussion. But not before taking one final Parthian shot._

_ "As you prefer it, Sparatus of the Hierarchy. Though it was our desire to end this conflict, our people are no strangers to violence. War has always been a part of us, and we have thrown ourselves into it time and time again when called to battle. Now, arms that were once used to spill blood between brothers will now spill the blood of Paleven's children. If you take nothing else away from today, then remember this. We do not fear you, and we will not bow to the will of any nation. Not even yours."_

_ Bascov showed himself out of the room. And with that, humanity had crossed the Rubicon. There was no turning back._

From that catastrophic diplomatic failure, the modern political landscape had emerged, the two camps picking their respective sides. Though no species took active part in their war, trade and economic lines had developed, drawn between the Turians and Citadel on one side, and the Humans, Terminus Systems, and Hierarchy on the other. Which brought the ambassador on a distressingly large number of jaunts away from the Sol System. Though Bascov did enjoy his frequent jaunts to Omega, his heart always belonged to his beloved St. Petersburg. His spirit ached for the majestic Black Sea, the sweeping urban vista, the large collection of lovely young men and women who inhabited the city and were always drawn to those of influence and power. Oh to indulge in the more carnal delights that awaited him eagerly back on the home-world.

This last thought in particular brought a wayward internal sigh to Bascov. It wasn't that he would have minded the thought of pursuing a local conquest or two. However, the majority of sapients he felt he personally had it in himself to pursue on Omega were batarians and asari (humans were still a relative rarity this far out with the exclusion of a few of the more bold merchants), and he didn't fancy a go at those asari. Not for any prejudicial reasons mind you, humans these days tended to focus pretty much all of their latent racism towards the admirable goal of murdering the shit out of their turian enemies. No, Bascov was held back by a small, most ingenious little device, made up of crude nanites, planted in the bowels of his central nervous system required of all Terrans above a certain security clearance. Designed to cause instant death via brain aneurysm should the subjects higher reasoning functions be tampered with or in anyway altered/compromised, it was originally designed for the singular purpose of ensuring that no one with anything important to say would ever say it under the light of turian interrogation. Upon learning of the asari, their unique breeding/melding methods and wet-dream inducing appearances, the devices were further altered to be sensitive to the kind of chemical changes that tended to occur when the blue humanoids linked minds with their chosen subject. Just as well, Bascov, indeed most humans, still couldn't be swayed to be comfortable with the idea of what was, quite literally, a mindfuck, though truth be told he wouldn't have minded having a crack at Aria before he kicked the bucket.

Speak of the devil, Aria, flanked by a token posse four armed guards, had at last decided to grace him with her presence. While grateful for her quick response, relative to the time it usually took her to meet with those who sought an audience with her, he was wearied by her continued attempts at diplomatic gamesmanship after all these years of knowing one another. Ah well, he reluctantly conceded she probably wouldn't be herself if she didn't indulge in such mind games, and therefore nowhere near as interesting an associate as she was. And she was a decent enough hostess to ensure that the refreshments awaiting him upon arrival were always of exceptional quality and cooled or warmed to exactly the right temperature.

A vaguely pleased smirk adorning his face, Bacov rose to greet the de-facto Queen of Omega. Extending their hands, Bascov firmly grasped her wrist, an ancient custom renewed in their hostile times, and tilted his head down in an acknowledgment of respect, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Aria, a pleasure as always."

Aria, carrying a smile reminiscent of the cat who caught the canary, gestured towards the comfortable looking chairs at the center of the room, separated by a small table carrying a small bottle of indigo liquor. As they collectively turned to be seated, Aria was good enough to respond in kind.

"Good to see you again Alexander. I hope you haven't been waiting too long, I was...delayed."

Suppressing a skeptical laugh at her subtle attempts to undermine the importance of their meeting, Bascov simply continued smirking, taking note of his surroundings as he grasped his drink once more. Nearby, Aria's men nervously eyed the 3 humans he had brought as his personal guard. While highly skilled for a group of mercenaries, Alliance forces had over the course of their conflict with Hierarchy built a fearsome reputation for themselves. More than a third of their population served formally in their armed forces, and the rest of their species, no matter their civilian occupation, was required to serve as a member in their colonies respective militia forces since the 5th year of their conflict. Subsequently, virtually every human began military training of some form upon entering high school in addition to ordinary educational requirements, and the men and women that made up their armed forces, particularly their special forces, were highly lethal. Strong as turians, with agility and dexterity nearly equal to that of an asari, and with exceptional athletic stamina thanks to their unique method of thermo-regulation (sweating), humans had become recognized as one of the premier warrior species of the galaxy (alongside the turians and krogan). And 3 of their most skilled fighters now stood in a room guarding their ambassador, no doubt one of which was likely a powerful biotic. The fact that 2 of the 4 Omega guards were turians did nothing to diffuse the tension in the room.

Leaning forward to pour himself a new drink, Bascov's face became serious as the liquid spilled into his glass.

"Well, I appreciate you managing to find time for me in your undoubtedly tight schedule. However, before we begin getting down to our usual business, I have a somewhat private matter I wish to discuss."

Aria, recognizing the tone of restrained worry in his voice, raised a single wayward eyebrow at this statement, before glancing at her guards and gesturing towards her guards to leave the room. They were reluctant to do so however. During a last ditch effort by the asari to mediate at least a ceasefire to the war on a neutral world, Bascov had been attacked by a turian assassin. What followed was described by commentators on the extranet as "the ass-kicking of the century." Bascov, despite his diplomat status, was a veteran of the Martian Insurrection, and was widely recognized as one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in human space. After disarming the would-be hit-mann, Bascov displayed his prowess in the _Chángquán_ fighting style, resulting in his attackerunconsciouss and nearly dead within minutes, and the conference ending in premature failure. Though reluctant to leave their employer alone with a dangerous man like Alexander Bascov, they recognized the authority of Aria and left without question. Bascov, in kind turned to his own guards and told them to exit the room, which they promptly did without complaint, their concern for their superior being left with so powerful an Asari as Aria overwhelmed by their unfailing discipline.

With both groups of armed goons now vacated from the room, Aria and Bascov basked in the rare moment of shared solitude before Aria poured herself a drink in kind.

"I must say Bascov, this is an unexpected occasion. I presume you aren't stupid enough to have done this to make a pass at me."

Eyes shining with amusement, Bascov continued grinning while staring somewhat tiredly into his drink.

"My dear Aria, I have no desire for my life to end so abruptly before I even hit middle age. With luck, I still have another century of service to render to my species, and another 70 years of relatively youthful health to enjoy it with. No, I'm afraid this request for privacy concerns a somewhat more serious matter, concerning the security of the Alliance."

Aria's face subsequently set into a more serious countenance, staring intently at Bascov before responding.

"Oh? Well, I'm surprised you would bring this matter to me rather than allow your own intelligence forces to handle it. How do you know I won't just sell you out to the Shadow Broker or some other interested party?"

Bascov, his face never wavering, looked her right in the eye.

"Because this matter is a threat to you, potentially as much as to us, T'Loak. Tell me, have you ever heard of an organization called Cerberus?"

At this, Aria again quirked an eyebrow. This was not what she had expected.

"No more than anyone else has. Some kind of rogue Alliance black ops group yes?"

Bascov chuckled a bit, rumors always had been a useful way to draw attention from something uncomfortable.

"Close but not quite. Cerberus is actually a private human group, always has been, since the day of its founding 37 years ago. Initially they had approached us in order to ascertain the possibility of a partnership, but they found the level of oversight required for formal Alliance affiliation to be unacceptable. So after the initial talks fell through they seemed to vanish, until we began hearing things. Rumors at first, stories of raids and attacks on Turian border worlds, industrial and scientific espionage in some of the more inaccessible parts of council space, unexpected windfalls of intelligence that just seemed to fall into our lap. Still, they were careful, and we weren't able to officially acknowledge their existence until 6 years ago, when by a fluke we captured one of their operatives."

Aria was intrigued, though still confused somewhat by the story.

"So why come here now? If they've been an issue for you this long, what has you so troubled that you come to me?"

Bascov quickly waved one of his hands somewhat dismissively through the air.

"No, no, you misunderstand, they weren't a problem to us. If private citizens wish to carry out their own actions against the turians in their own way, far be it from us to stop them. We haven't the time, resources, or desire to try and ferret out what to us is simply an issue of citizens carrying out informal action against the enemies of mankind. Personally, I say more power to them. By all account they've been extremely effective, and if they're willing to drop a windfall into our laps here and there, all the better. No, them being anything more than a minor bureaucratic nuisance to us is a recent, and troubling, development."

Curiouser and curiouser this situation grew for Aria, and she could not help but delve further of her own volition.

"And what development might that be Bascov?"

Idly sipping his drink, Bascov sighed somewhat wearily before responding.

"Are you familiar with the concept of a 'salt bomb'?"

Aria merely shrugged her shoulders.

"Can't say that I have."

Oh good, a chance to play professor. A task Bascov did not relish.

"The salted bomb is a previously theoretical concept that has existed as an idea for nearly as long as my species has had nuclear weapons. Essentially, the idea is that you surround the core of the device, fission or fusion, with a material that can be converted into a highly radioactive isotope when bombarded with neutrons from the nuclear detonation, such as cobalt. Subsequently, the blast spreads huge amounts of radioactive material across an incredibly wide area, making it completely inhospitable to any form of life. If the explosion is powerful enough, and designed appropriately, it could potentially be made to render an entire world uninhabitable."

Aria's eyes grew ever so slightly wider, before her reflections on something his said made her blood run cold.

"Wait, you said previously theoretical...by the Goddess did you actually build this fucking abomination?"

Though still carrying a grim look in his eyes, Bascov still managed to shake his head.

"Not quite. During the early years of our war with the Hierarchy, as we were forced further and further back into our territory, the situation turned increasingly desperate. In our desperation, we explored an ever increasing number of desperate ideas. Among other things, work was done in exploration of the idea of building a 'salted bomb.' Some preliminary tests were done, a few designs explored, but no fully functioning device was ever made. After we managed to drive out the turians, and met with the council, we realized this weapon could potentially do more harm than good, so the idea was shelved and the original work and designs were locked away."

Two and two together time...

"This is where Cerberus comes into the story I assume."

Bascov nodded grimly by way of response.

"Somehow a Cerberus agent managed to get their hands on the data from the original research. This job was beyond professional. Even with inside help, this should have been impossible. The local area networks are completely cut off from outside communication, the internal servers have encryption that would make the Shadow Broker shit himself, and the facility where we store this data is designed to go into lock-down if more than 3 people are inside. We're not even sure how long ago the data was stolen, we only caught wind of the theft during a routine security diagnostic showed signs of unauthorized entry into those specific files. Cerberus boasts some impressive men and women as personnel, and we have little doubt they have the scientific and technical expertise to use what they have taken to complete a salted nuke."

Aria, having managed to re-compose herself after her initial outburst, carefully measured her response.

"This certainly is a serious situation Bascov, but why is your government so concerned? From the sound of things, Cerberus getting their hands on such a weapon would only be a danger to the Turian Hierarchy. Other than proliferation risks, this hardly seems more a danger to Citadel space than your people or the Terminus systems."

The following admission is not one that would ever come easy to Bascov or any human.

"Well, our primary concern is appearances, specifically those of the remaining Citadel species."

At this, Aria cracked a small grin.

"What's the matter, your people afraid of losing the moral high ground or something?"

Bascov's only response to this was to stare at her for a few moments intently before chuckling lightly and leaning back to relax in his chair a moment.

"Aria, my people have no delusions. Our conflict with the Turians is no longer one of abstract, subjective definitions of "good" or "evil." Both sides have depopulated entire regions of space in massive battles, employing new weapons previously unimagined. Both sides no longer bother to take prisoners of war for lack of adequate food supplies. The Turians are guilty of pushing their unwilling vassals for more and more resources and soldiers for their war machine. We are guilty of helping to prop up and spread a slave economy for nearly 5 decades to maintain our own efforts. The concern has long since stopped being about who was right or wrong. All that matters now is who is alive and who is dead.

But despite all this, regardless of how far this has carried on, each side has been careful not to cross certain lines. If a cobalt bomb exterminated the population of a turian world, I doubt many humans would shed tears over it. However, this might very well be the trip wire that sets off foreign intervention. And I will not let the sovereignty and survival of my species be threatened by anyone, least of all a group of overzealous concerned citizens who care nothing for the political realities of what Humanity as a whole must face!"

If nothing else, Aria considered this meeting worthwhile for the sheer spectacle of the normally cool and composed representative of the might Systems Alliance lose himself to rage for a moment with a pounding of fist upon table to emphasize the last sentence. Reining himself in, Bascov managed to get to the meat of the conversation.

"My apologies for the momentary lapse you just witnessed. Sufficed to say, this situation has made us somewhat desperate. Cerberus, clever bastards that they are, actually has only a limited operational presence in the Alliance proper. Most of their bases and agents operate within the Terminus systems. I don't suppose you know of anyone who might hold sway in such a vast, chaotic region...?"

Smirking coyly, Aria refreshed her drink.

"I suppose I might hear a thing or two every now and then, when the moments present themselves. You still haven't struck upon the crux of the matter. Why should **I** personally care?"

Still staring intently at her, Bascov went for the kill.

"Simple Aria. Cerberus, good as they are, cannot hide all their operations from the greater universe while operating outside of human territory. Rumors will eventually leak out, and will find their way to the ears of the collective intelligence services of council space. They may start prodding around, turning over a few stones, maybe even start sending in a few more Spectres. This is a lethal weapon T'Loak. Imagine just how far the council might be willing to start delving into your affairs in the name of finding this. How much coin is worth ceding the Council's policy of non-interference?"

Now **there** was an extremely good point. Aria had to give him credit, Bascov knew just what to say to inspire her cooperation.

"Your talent for rhetoric has not declined over the years Bascov, I'll give you that. Let's say, just for the sake of argument, I decide to go along with this little cloak and dagger escapade of yours. What exactly will you be expecting from me?"

His serious countenance slipped slightly, Bascov was quite gratified to see this start to come together.

"Aria, we have no desire to burden your station resources or flood the Terminus systems with agents. We do have a war to carry on with after all. What we need from you is to do what you do best. Keep your eyes and ears open, stretch forth your hand behind the scenes and see what can be dug up. Any information you come across pass along to us, we'll handle the actual leg work. Just help us in the ways only you can, and with luck we will resolve this situation as swiftly as possible with the smallest level of inconvenience to you or your operations. We can hammer out the details once we get someone from Operational Intelligence to get in touch with you, all I want right now is an agreement in principle."

Aria, for all the credit she had to concede to Bascov's capacity for logic, had to mull it over for a second. Her dealings with the Alliance had always been relatively straightforward, and they always had the decency to stick to the letter of the agreements they made with her, it was of course the quality that made them such good business associates. However, there was something about this whole affair that filled her with a vague sense of unease, like there was something more at work. And the idea that she and a doomsday weapon might be smaller parts of a greater, more dangerous plot did nothing to assuage her fears. Ultimately though, she had to admit that the mere threat of this weapon's existence necessitated her putting aside her fears for now and once again aligning herself, for the time being, with the greater goals of the Systems Alliance. Once again, as she had done so many times in the past, Aria extended her hand to grasp at, and shake, Bascov's wrist.

"I think we can work out an arrangement to put this all behind us."

Bascov just kept up that infuriating, arrogant smirk.

"Excellent. Now then, lets call our respective henchmen back in to discuss the more public matters with a few witnesses at play."

_3 hours later..._

Sighing in relief, Bascov made his way back to his vessel for a bit of a rest before enjoying a few of the more entertaining sights of Omega "night" life. Flanked by his small cadre of henchmen, he decided to segue into the scenic route for a minute to indulge in a little extra rumination time. While the remaining couple of hours of negotiations and discussions had focused on other important matters, including upcoming discussions with representatives from several Hegemony lords (or whatever the hell the actual title was) for the possibility of a long-term trade presence on a number of Alliance border colonies within the Terminus, Bascov's thoughts remained squarely focused on the brief 20 minutes they had spent prior to the "official" business. He quickly decided upon the realization that it had gone far better than he could have actually expected.

Aria was notoriously intransigent in regards to offering up any of her own time or resources to assist in any endeavors that did not directly, and obviously, benefit her. She was wise enough to understand the theoretical value of building good will with other players, but the truth was her very willingness to simply serve as mediator over the years had provided a sizable stockpile of good will from the Alliance over the years, with extremely limited effort on her part, so it didn't necessarily benefit her in any way to increase the surplus. While he had credited himself enough eloquence to convince her to at least not sell off anything she heard, he did not actually expect to convince to offer up any help, even on the limited scale she was prepared to give. Her willingness to assist in any capacity would prove a substantial boon for their investigations into this embarrassing Cerberus intelligence coup.

Most humans tended to not give much thought to the private, clandestine organization. This was not by accident, as Cerberus' greatest strength lay in anonymity. It would do little good for them to operate with a great deal of fanfare, positive or otherwise, so most of the ways Cerberus involved themselves in Alliance and/or galactic affairs tended to be so subtle, or so well hidden, that many believed they were just some kind of rumor or modern myth. The few who had access to the full truth as to the extent of Cerberus' actions, like Bascov, actually held a quiet, supportive neutrality toward them. While the higher-ups didn't much appreciate organizations acting in such a capacity outside their oversight, most were content to just let them be or even offer the occasional bit of unofficial support in the hopes of grabbing a nibble or two of whatever little tidbit Cerberus threw their way.

However, Cerberus had crossed the line. No longer a group of concerned, talented citizens, they had taken the plunge and were now courting terrorism and treason against the Systems Alliance. In spite of this, a number of higher-ups were feeling something akin to relief. Despite getting their hands on the research for the salted bomb, there was still no evidence that they had come anywhere close to getting their hands on the greatest secret of the Alliance.

To this day, there was a reason Bascov would idly rub the back of his head, contemplating with great scrutiny the original purpose for the nanites designed to so quickly end his life. Originally, their existence was to protect a single technology of the Systems Alliance, so profound and important, the device still had a duel use purpose: 1) to kill off high-value personnel if being interrogated, and 2) instantly kill them, in any situation, where they spoke of this secret to anyone. The secret of non-Mass Effect faster than light travel.

The plain and simple truth was, Humanity had always been a paranoid species, to the point where some humans would conjure complex and labyrinthine conspiracies where none existed. This suspicion, for better and worst, had always been with mankind, and extended even to the magnificent discoveries of the Prothean drive cores and Mass Relays. Never quite comfortable with how it just came to be, no proof on the part of other species with the Protheans actually being responsible for the technologies' existence, just assumptions. Too many unknown variables to cope with, even with such a useful cadre of machines. This, coupled with the early discoveries of the relative rarity of Element Zero in the universe (and the additional discovery of the not quite safe places it resided in), caused the Alliance to never fully abandon its research into alternate forms of FTL, and the needed sources of energy to power them, even long after beginning its initial construction of the semi-understood Mass Effect drive.

After another 50 years of research of continuous research at Jump Point Zero (about 30 years after the discovery on Mars), the first great leap came. Using a prototype anti-matter reactor, Dr. Musa Adeniji managed to produce the effect of artificial gravity manipulation, without the use of a mass effect field. The war with the turians beginning 2 years later accelerated this research as the Alliance, slowly crushed by the vast forces and eezo stockpiles of the Hierarchy, searched desperately for any advantage. Within 5 years of break neck (and sometimes lethal) work, a team of researchers and engineers, led by Dr. Adeniji, produced the first prototype Space-Time Fold Drive. Capable of displacing a starship more than 150 light years with one jump, it proved to be more than an order of magnitude faster than a mass effect drive system. It was not a perfect technology, requiring six hours between jumps due to the massive power requirements. And while due to the vast nature of space and the relative rarity of matter to empty vacuum one was unlikely to jump into anything, if jumping into an unexplored system, the danger was certainly very real. And of course, there was the expense of building a large number of such drive systems for a large number of ships in a short period of time.

As a result, a military compromise was reached. A relatively small fleet of vessels would be built in secret, and be used as a fast strike force to throw the turians off their game. Within 2 years, a fleet of nearly 60 ships was built and sent into Hierarchy space, with the historically documented results speaking for themselves. Since then, the humans maintained only 3 fleets of such ships, with 2 acting as rapid-reaction forces, and 1 acting as a raiding/invasion force, striking as moments presented themselves. And of course, a small number of unarmed exploration and colonization vessels, allowing human expansion into unknown and inaccessible regions of space.

This drive tech was the crux of human military strategy for many years, and as such was a secret guarded with great ferocity. Every crew member on space-fold ships had the nanite device implanted in their nervous systems, even if they didn't know any more about the technology than its name. Each member of the crew, aside from the engineering staff, also had their memories of the time serving aboard these vessels removed from their minds following their service within either the rapid reaction or raiding fleets. The engineers, in order to serve aboard these vessels, had to agree to do so for life. Each ship was equipped with redundant nuclear weapons to destroy any trace of the drive core or computer systems, and other vessels within the fleet were obligated to destroy any other non-Mass Effect FTL ship that was too damaged to make a jump with their own ship-board nuclear missiles. Only one dockyard actually had the facilities to construct and repair the vessels, and it was in a region of space only accessible through space-fold jumps.

Of all of the technological leaps in the past 50 years, it remained the only one to never make it to the rest of the armed forces. Until the numerical balance had reached an acceptable level between the two factions (currently 3 to 1, though a marked improvement from the early years of the war when it was roughly 11 to 1), the Navy refused to outfit more than a handful of ships with the drive system, out of fear that doing so would raise the risk of capture and enemy reverse engineering. As a result, the vast majority of the remaining warships in the Alliance navy used conventional Mass Effect FTL. However, thanks to the output produced by the widespread dissemination of antimatter reactor technology, classic superluminal travel was now 80% faster than previous generation engines.

However grateful Bascov was for these new small favors, he did still resent having to deal with the relatively slow journey afforded to him by his private ship. Ah well, at least it gave him an excuse to enjoy the sights and sounds of Omega for a few more days than just those scheduled for his official meetings, what with having to buy fuel, discharge the drive core, etc. And, to top off his evening, he had spotted a not-unattractive pair of Batarian females earlier giving him that special, four-eyed look that only Hegemony women could give to signal readiness. Bascov could only smile at that little thought. Sometimes, it really was good to be on top.

Omega was a place that was known, first and foremost, as somewhere to get lost. Wanderers from every corner of the civilized and border-land space gravitated towards the station, each with something to hide. So it would be easy to forgive anyone, even Alexander Bascov, for missing a hooded observer in a dark alley, watching him as he moved with his goons close by. A pair of sharp, dark eyes followed him slowly as he made his way back to the ship, looking for any indication that he might be aware he was being followed or that his little opening conversation with Aria might have been heard.

She was rather pleased at the relative difficulty she had in finding a way to listen in. The room had specially designed, high energy magnetic fields designed to damage or disable electronic recording equipment and transmitters, as well as a set of top of the line biometric sensors that would shriek like the dead of night if it detected any watchers physically in the room. However, there was always a way, and this observer was one of the best.

One should not get the wrong idea. This woman had no ill-will or hostile intent towards either Bascov or Aria. In fact, she held a great respect for the man who stood as one of the main reasons humanity remained a sovereign people. She just wanted to make sure everyone knew what they were supposed to know. Fortunately, every piece of "need to know" data was known by the people she needed. Soon, she would have her revenge, and she only hoped that before it was over, all those who were to be victims of her wrath might once hear her name, might hear it whispered across the ages. That they all might know the name..._Shepard._

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating. I've been swamped by work. I'll do what I can to keep updating this in a more prompt manner from now on. You all may have noticed that I've tweaked the time-line slightly for my own purposes, I figured this is an AU so whatever I can do what I feel like :). Hope you all are willing to stick around for more. And as always, review!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The Mass Effect franchise belongs to Bioware and, unfortunately, EA as well.

**Chapter 4: For Empire, Duty, and What Remains After**

_You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering._

_**-Henri Frédéric Amiel**_

The alleys of Sigana Cropulus had never been particularly pleasant. The capital city of the Sigana colony had always been something of a black sheep of the Turian's far-flung holdings. With a relay connecting directly to the Skyllian Verge, the world served as a gateway to the Terminus systems and was populated, by and large, by the unwanted elements of Turian society. Members of their species who didn't quite fit the mold, couldn't quite conform to the demands of Turian civilization, fled to this world with the unspoken blessing of the Primarchs, one of the only planets capable of growing dextro-acid food in this particular star-cluster. But, in more recent times, it had become something of a symbol for the slow decay of the Hierarchy. No longer capable of diverting resources to colony worlds deemed non-essential, the minimal police force had shrunk to almost nothing, the colonial infrastructure was gradually falling apart, and what little semblance of law and order that had been maintained by the patrol fleet that once made token passes through the system had vanished with the scant handful of ships that had once passed for a defense flotilla.

What followed the disintegration of Hierarchy authority was what usually could be expected the collapse of the "system". Drug trade, smuggling, thievery, the usual ails of society had been steadily rising for the past 30 years. Unlike the other worlds that could count on the innate discipline of its populace to maintain the usual trappings of civilization, there was only an overworked, largely corrupt police force, frequently doing more to aid in the situation's deterioration than its alleviation. This world could only be adequately described as a Turian colony by the presence of a majority Turian population. And even that was slowly changing, as the world's population began to shrink and larger numbers of Terminus foreigners setting up shop, quite content to import food from planets only a relay jump away.

Far from being concerned, however, the Primarch Council was largely content to abandon the world to its own devices. Much as they hated the thought of ceding any of their colonies to such shameful societal deterioration, the planet had always been a dumping ground for social undesirables, and they were increasingly content to leave the cretins to their wretched misery. More to the issue, its accelerating collapse into just another Terminus world was making it increasingly useful as a point of espionage.

Words and information flowed through its streets like water after a storm. Talk that would never be passed between proper Hierarchy citizens spread amongst the denizens of Sigana like STD's. News and information, from idle gossip to treasure troves of vital intelligence to be read between lines, was everywhere to be found to those with ears to listen. Despite the withdrawal of 16th patrol flotilla, the population of turian intelligence personal was nearly thrice what it had been before the start of the war.

It was this state of affairs that Spectre Garrus Vakarian finds himself in on this blighted shithole of civilization. Occupying a small, solitary table in the corner of a local restaurant careful and clever enough to serve both dextro and levo patrons, he carried himself with a deceptively relaxed demeanor, dressed comfortably in some local civilian garments. At his side was a pistol, a fortunately (for him) common site upon this world, though disguised enough to not giveaway the fact that it was an Spectre-exclusive weapon that could cut through all but the strongest of kinetic barriers and battle armors in 2 shots or less and was accurate at ranges beyond what pretty much any species could see. A forgotten, largely uneaten bowl of soup lay before him as he discretely eyed a pair of Batarians and an Ulongui near the building entrance, carrying on a whispered conversation. Odd grouping that lot, the 4 crimson eyes of the Batarians looking intently into the 2 luminescent, overly sensitive eyes of the Ulongui covered by a pair of darkened goggles stretching awkwardly over a (relatively) flat, elongated head.

But considerations of appearances were largely irrelevant in recent times. All that mattered these days was that they were Terminus vagabonds, and more importantly were the latest lead which he had picked up on this mission. Ever since the last known visit undertaken by the human ambassador to Omega about 3 months ago, there was a new feel in the solar winds, a distressing sense that something big was awaiting upon the horizon. Whispers of new movements throughout the independent worlds of ships without known markings or configurations, unexplained and seemingly innocuous transfers taking place between recent newcomers to the Terminus economies, and a sudden, gradual influx of what could only be Alliance agents, all pointing to a great event yet to come.

It was these circumstances that nowadays brought the Spectres to the realm of the Terminus and the outer rim of Citadel Space. Though the Council drew the line at direct involvement in the war between the Alliance and Hierarchy, including the sending of its vaunted agents anywhere near human space, strong-armed stonewalling by the turians led to the unspoken understanding that the Hierarchy had the authority to deploy idle Turian Spectres at will when not on official Council business. Having caught wind of a suspected (yet unconfirmed) intelligence leak via the Shadow Broker, the head of internal security, General Altera, used said authority to send Garrus to the Sigana colony where the deal was rumored to be going down.

At first a seeming fool's errand, Vakarian caught a break after a few weeks rooting around the dark corners of the capital city when a peripheral conversation at a local watering hole dropped the name "Coriolanus." Though unfamiliar with the reference, access to the small list of known informants in this region of space confirmed the presence of a suspected Broker agent by that name making base somewhere nearby. After a few choice words injected into the ongoing dialogue (cash to the first conversationalist as an opening statement, a bullet in the knee of the other as a closing argument), Garrus had dredged up the identities of some Terminus smugglers and a location for a meeting, most certainly a drop, though neither could put a face to the name. Tracking down the smugglers was relatively simple, and thus did Spectre Vakarian find himself idly stirring a soup in the corner of a dingy little restaurant.

After what seemed like a brief little slice of personal, hellish eternity (in actuality about 40 minutes) of asinine conversation regarding the details of their (rapidly dwindling in duration) lives, one of them finally had the decency to check his damned omni-tool and gesture to the others that it was time to make their appointment. The trio rose from their table, still carrying on a bit of idle chit-chat here and there, threw some coins onto the table, and exited the restaurant. Waiting a few minutes to avoid suspicion, Garrus similarly rose from his own table, threw his own money onto the table (credit chits were usually avoided for anonymity purposes on missions), and pursued his targets.

A gentle, just heavy enough to be irritating rain fell upon the turian agent as he maintained a reasonably discrete distance from the group, still loud and boisterous enough to follow with ease, despite the heavy cloud cover and dwindling UV light coming from the end of the capital's day cycle. To their extremely limited credit, they were at least bright enough to weave through the city in an inefficient pattern to throw off potential pursuers, but this strategy was largely mitigated by the fact that they wouldn't shut up, or at least tone down the volume, particularly as they entered more sparsely populated sections of the slums, quite confident they were unremarkable enough in appearance to avoid detection. For a tracker as professional as the one who now pursued him, they presented no challenge more formidable than following a drunk krogan to a brawl.

Finally, after making one last U-Turn, they came to what appeared to be a small, makeshift spaceport near the outskirts of the Tirrana district. A shuttle stood idle on what might be generously referred to as the "landing pad", while a figure stood in front of the boxy craft, no doubt awaiting their arrival. Wearing what looked like a long ebon coat, the figure's face was actually blurred, no doubt being hidden in plain sight by a "shroud." A recent, and expensive, personal security invention worn about the head, redirecting and altering the wavelengths of the visible light spectrum about a users face, making their appearance completely undetectable. Useless in day to day activities, perfect for private meetings like this one. Deciding now was the moment to make himself scarce, Garrus took to a nearby building, making his way through the tenement dwellings before coming to rest atop a single story roof, hidden by darkness and a small ledge that just barely blocked the view of his prey below. Leaning as close to the edge as he dared, he awaited to hear what he could before making his move.

"You 3 bring the payment?"

The cloaked figure's speech was strange and mechanical, no doubt altered by an implanted voice modulator. One of the Batarians stepped forward to respond, holding what appeared to be a messenger bag.

"It's all there. Physical currency as requested."

He followed up with a toss of the bag to their client. His two companions had placed their hands on their sidearms, no doubt preparing to drop him if this was a double cross. All the better for Garrus, might add a little challenge to the situation. The figure opened the bag, glanced briefly to check the contents before closing it and nodding.

"Everything seems to be in order then."

The smuggler who passed it off blinked in surprise.

"What, that's it? You're not going to count it or something?"

The figure glanced (?) at him.

"Do I need to?"

The Batarian had the decency to look vaguely abashed.

"No, not at all!"

The figure responded with another nod.

"Good, I like to count after the fact. That way, if someone **has** short-changed me, the time I save from the counting leaves me with all sorts of spare moments to plot a horrible demise for the one responsible, especially when I have their DNA all over the money to help track them down."

The only response the smuggler could give to this was a somewhat nervous laugh while his compatriots' grips tightened around their pistols. But rather than carrying on, the figure simply reached into the inside his coat and withdrew a small OSD.

"This is the data requested by your clients back in the Balor system. You have 4 days to get it back to them, before the OSD automatically wipes its own memory and overheats itself, making it of no use to anyone. Your client has done business with the Broker before, they know the proper sequence to access data we send them."

As with the payment before, the OSD was quickly airborne, the smuggler leader grasping it out of the air. With that, the agent shouldered the bag and turned back towards the ship.

"And with that gentleman, I bid you a merry 'fuck off before someone sees us'."

Realizing that was all he was destined to get from this enriching little conversation, Garrus took that as his cue. Quickly activating his one-time, emergency cloak, he lept down from the ledge and began to run as silent as he could. After a swift dash reduced the distance between him and the group to about 10 meters, the Spectre smoothly withdrew his gun from its holster and fired twice, instantly downing two of the smugglers with simultaneous rear head-shots. Before his cloak even had time to deactivate, he was already upon the final smuggler. Overtaken with shock, the Batarian had no time to react before the muscular Turian appeared in mid-air before him, grabbed his head between the free hand and forearm, and snapped his neck in a quick jerking motion. Quickly drawing his weapon back up for a clear line of sight, however, Garrus found himself staring down the business end of a rather-menacing looking handgun. With both weapons trained on the other, and with no discernible kinetic or biotic barriers between them, it was a stalemate. Eyes fixed on one another, it was, oddly enough, the Broker agent who broke the tense silence.

"A nice piece of work Vakarian, though rather sloppy in the set-up. You took out this little gaggle of smuggler thugs with the kind of professionalism your reputation carries, though I expected a little more effort on your part to catch me by surprise."

Shoving aside his vague astonishment at recognized so easily, Garrus responded in kind, his eyes never leaving his opponent.

"And you must be this Coriolanus I've heard so much about. Interesting name."

His opposite shrugged slightly, never taking the pistol off his new enemy.

"I don't choose the code-names Spectre."

Garrus' mandibles twitched slightly while discretely moving his large talon towards a disguised button near the base of his weapon handle, his middle talon still hovering over the trigger..

"I assume your Broker mater is responsible for that kind of thing eh?"

With his face till obscured by the Shroud, Garrus could only guess at the kind of reaction he'd gotten from that.

"Hell if I know. Never met the man, woman, or whatever the Broker is, I just took what I was given when I entered the service."

Garrus gave no outward reaction while inwardly rather thrilled his discrete motion had gone unnoticed, still hoping to take him alive.

"Well, whatever you **DO** know, I don't suppose there's any chance you might just be willing to throw a few pieces in my direction in exchange for me just walking away and forgetting I saw you?"

Garrus could only speculate, but he assumed this produced a vaguely bemused smile in his opponent.

"Vakarian, I think you better than anyone know that nothing is ever that simple."

Garrus grinned in turn.

"Good."

Applying pressure to the hidden button and quickly adjusting the barrel to just behind the agent, a small concussion grenade was launched from a concealed secondary barrel from underneath the primary barrel. The explosion and subsequent pressure wave caused the agent to momentarily shield his face by instinct, as well as cause a temporary malfunction in the shroud, revealing "Coriolanus" to be a fellow turian for a split second. Taking careful note of this tidbit, Garrus sprung into action, sprinting to his adversary, firing a few rounds in an effort to wound him, missing by virtue of his moving shots and the quick recovery of his enemy. Coriolanus was able to fire once in the Spectre's general direction before Garrus was upon him, taking a swipe at his head with the high-end pistol.

Quickly moving his head out of the way, Coriolanus countered with a roundhouse kick to the Spectre's abdomen, which in turn was caught by the Vakarian, who was forced to discard his weapon in order to use his opponent's position to sweep his leg's out from under him and toss him to the ground. Garrus quickly placed both his knees upon the agents chest, temporarily robbing him of breath as he knocked Coriolanus' pistol from his hand before delivering a quick elbow strike to his left eye. The follow up attempt to punch him led to a successful block by Coriolanus, who bucked his lower body upwards, knocking the young Vakarian to the ground beside him. What followed was an intense grappling match between the two adversaries, each trying to relieve the others joints from their sockets while working themselves into a position to grab at something lethal.

At last, Garrus successfully grasped at his standard issue combat Talon, at took a swipe at his opponent currently underneath him, leaving a shallow wound at his (now obviously) fellow turian's shoulder scales. Giving a brief cry of surprise, Coriolanus managed to shrug Garrus off and deliver a quick punch to the face, sending the Spectre tumbling to the ground in surprise. Grasping at his shoulder, his Shroud no longer functioning properly, Garrus lunged for his pistol as his treacherous countryman hauled ass to the nearby shuttle. Still seeing stars from the blow to the face, he fired a few ineffectual shots towards the retreating agent before he jumped into the craft, the doors sliding shut behind him. Seconds later, the transport slowly lifted off from the ground and made its ascent towards the night sky, Garrus managed to stand up, still firing shots at the retreating vessel, hoping he might get lucky and inadvertently hit something of importance, though it was not to be, and the vessel was soon out of visual range.

Breathing heavily, Garrus took a moment to take stock of the situation. While it stung his pride somewhat that his target had escaped, there were a few silver linings to be found. The OSD was still being gripped by the poor bastard whose neck he had snapped, with recoverable info on it assuming it could be decrypted in the next few days. He had the blood/DNA of his enemy on his knife, as well as footage of his appearance stored on his optical implant, giving Internal Intelligence a chance to finally get a useful ID on the local Shadow Broker agent. And, he had of course gotten a chance to finally get off this piss-hole of a planet and make his way back to Palaven for debriefing.

_10 Days Later..._

It was an irritating position for a Turian Spectre to find themselves in these days. After the "agreement" made with the rest of the Council, men and women like Garrus rarely found themselves with idle time to waste, and in some ways had actually spoiled them to unofficial shore leave. This was the situation Garrus Vakarian now endured, awaiting instructions anxiously, desperate for something to burn away his boredom. After arriving on the homeworld a little over a week ago, he promptly delivered the storage device and his official report to Intelligence HQ. After thanking him for his diligence and assuring him that they would work with all due haste to find what they could, Garrus at last returned to his apartment, to grab a moment's sleep in his own bed, and a stiff drink.

But now, his relaxation had rapidly turned to restlessness, and he now smoldered with a desire to get back into action. His scales itched with a relentless need for something, anything to make his mind off the fact that working as a agent of both the Council and the Hierarchy had left him with absolutely no life to enjoy outside of his official duties. Not that he wasn't proud to serve his people so profusely, but fuck if it didn't truly suck sometimes. That little tussle with Coriolanus had been a fun diversion, but ultimately it was self-defeating as it ensured that the Shadow Broker would avoid sending agents to Sigana for a while, so that was now a dry well for the foreseeable future. The only light at the end of this tunnel was his meeting later on today with the acting Head of the Interior, Primarch Sparatus.

Sparatus' appointment was a fairly recent one. After a century of service in the Hierarchy, and 70 years as the representative for the turian people on the Citadel Council, he had retired about 10 years prior to the position of Primarch. Officially it was a reward, a rest from so many decades of dedicated service, though the nature of his promotion had led many to question this. It was no secret that his views on the war had cooled somewhat since the day of his tirade against the human ambassador in the earlier days of the conflict, putting him, as well as many of the older leaders of the Hierarchy, at something of odds with the younger, more hot-headed officers who had grown up with the war and now knew nothing else. His place on the council had been replaced by a scion of the younger generation, the 47 year old Kurant, while he had been given the position of Primarch. However, his largely symbolic position as Head of Interior and high-ranking official in Naval Intelligence showed this title to be largely meaningless without an actual star cluster to hold jurisdiction over. All in all, a rather ignoble way to spend the remaining decades of the life for such a committed servant of Palaven.

But such musings were for another day. His meeting was in about an hour, and Garrus generally enjoyed to walk when he was in Cipritine, as opposed to air car or shuttle, so now was as good a time as any to take his leave. Suiting up in his combat armor, grabbing, collapsing, and attaching them to his armor hard points, he activated his home's biometric scanner and took his leave.

To this day, Garrus had always loved walking through the streets of the capital city. All around, the industrious diligence of his people was on display. Always moving with purpose, no one idling or loitering about, nobody wasting state resources, it was a true testament to turian strength and discipline. Though these displays were also marked by a new sight, the ever-increasing mercenary population. With so much of the fleet stretched out by the war with the humans, the Hierarchy was forced to begin outsourcing a growing quantity of their internal security matters to guns for hire to make up the numbers being sent to the outskirts of their territory. While few were happy about such matters, they needed the extra manpower, and posting them to fight on the front lines would be foolish given A) how unreliable such forces were in front-line combat, and B) the risk that the humans might out-bid them at a critical moment and lead to disaster in a decisive battle. Much of the mercenary fleet was stationed in the Palaven system, its Mass Relay allowing them to respond to unrest upon client worlds or smugglers, as well as allowing swift access back to the homeworld by one of the frontier fleets if any of their cutthroat "allies" got any ideas. Mostly though, while most didn't like it, the mercs were largely just a minor inconvenience, since most of them stayed on their ships or the Lagrange Point station between Palaven and Impera, the only real issue being the small number of industrial-scale levo food synthesizers to feed the largely non-turian force.

Passing by the local market plaza, Garrus came to the government district. He had always appreciated the grand, yet practical nature of the buildings design, though the angular, almost fortress-like architecture of the Ministry of Intelligence bordered a little too close to "monomaniacal" for his tastes. Upon entering the massive double doors, he was greeted by the building VI, advising him to proceed to the top floor. He did as requested, and was greeted upon arrival by the Primarch's aide, a young Major by the name of Krintus, who led him down the corridor to the office of Sparatus.

The Primarch's office was appropriately ostentatious for a man of his stature, though relatively sparsely decorated. Fitting for a career officer, none of those unnecessarily obscene displays that might be seen in the place of bureaucrat or some foreign diplomat. Sparatus himself was standing near a window, staring out onto the streets, observing the comings and goings of the citizenry. An empty glass gripped in one hand, the room carried a faint hint of alcohol. It appeared that being shoved away in an office somewhere to slowly die was proving surprisingly disagreeable to the old soldier.

"How does the day find you Vakarian?"

Ever the loyal warrior, Garrus responded quickly with a tone of utter respect.

"As well as I imagine it can Primarch."

Sparatus merely shook his head, still looking out the window.

"Sparatus."

Now Garrus was perturbed. This was a first.

"Sir?"

Sparatus simply watched the streets.

"My name is Sparatus, boy. That title means nothing to me. It's just a clever little word for 'exile'. I'd prefer my name to it Vakarian."

Garrus nodded, understanding to the best of his ability.

"As you wish sir."

Sighing wearily, Sparatus at last turned to face the Spectre.

"That will have to do I guess. I suppose you're wondering why I've brought you here."

Garrus remained tensed and ready, holding a rigid soldier's stance.

"I assumed I would be receiving my next assignment Sir. Though I must admit, I'm surprised to being briefed on it by you."

Sparatus chuckled, swirling the contents of his glass before draining the remainder in a single gulp.

"Yes, well this is a matter of some relative importance to the State, however this is more for my sake than anything else. I'm usually tucked away here, trapped by duty to carry out my obligations to Palaven, which as of this moment amount to precisely nothing. Handing this assignment out to you gives me a chance to feel, for lack of a better word, useful."

So perhaps the rumors surrounding the pressure for retirement had a bit more truth to them then Garrus had first credited them. Sparatus gestured to the table, which held the burnt husk that was once the OSD from the Sigana mission.

"Before the storage device burned itself out, we had about 2 days to break the encryption. Our cyberwarfare personnel managed to get about half the information off before it burst into flames."

Garrus nodded in appreciation at this. Considering the lengths usually gone to by the Shadow Broker for secrecy, it was an impressive achievement.

"Anything of value sir?"

Sparatus glanced at him, almost surprised that this model of turian rigidness volunteered a question unbidden.

"Most of it was junk data, a common technique to conceal encrypted data when we're working on a time limit. However, they managed to dredge up something of interest. It was, what appeared, to be incomplete stellar maps of volus and turian freighter routes through a handful of neutral systems in or near the Terminus, primarily in the general vicinity of the Ismar Frontier and Crescent Nebula. We're not sure what this means, but we've come across someone who might: an Asari matron, formerly employed in the service of Omega. You're being deployed to Illium in the Tesale system to hear what she has to say and dig up anything else you can. Illium is technically outside the official jurisdiction of the Asari Republics, so human vessels make occasional forays there, you may may hear something not normally meant for Council ears."

Garrus was rather shocked. Though the decision to travel the distance to hear what the informant had to say was not surprising, given that a transmission might be heard by the feared lord of Omega, Aria, who might then pass it on to her Alliance friends, it was the choice to not capitalize on an opportunity that proved rather astonishing.

"Illium sir? What about the Balor system? There is a confirmed human presence there, possibly Alliance Intelligence services, or even that rogue group Cerberus."

Sparatus merely shook his head.

"A reconnaissance probe was deployed there 2 days ago. All that remained there was a steaming crater the size of a small town on one of the moons. They must have assumed the worst when the 4 days elapsed and no one had produced an OSD for them to look at."

Garrus sighed wearily. He probably should have realized this earlier.

"Very well sir, I'll make my way to the Crescent Nebula within 48 hours. I simply have a few personal affairs to attend to before hand."

Grunting in agitation, Sparatus turned towards the desk to grasp at yet another bottle of liquor, muttering angrily as he poured it into his glass.

"Off to meet Saren then I assume?"

Garrus was surprised by the bitterness in his voice, but recovered quickly to respond to his superior.

"Yes councilor. You're familiar with the admiral?"

Sparatus merely grunted again, taking a long swig of his drink before answering properly.

"Familiar. Hmph...I suppose that's one way to put it. Known that daft bastard near on a century, since when he was a Captain on my command staff, just barely finished with his lieutenant phase, shitting himself in some hole while human mechs lumbered about, blasting at us with rail-guns and particle beams. Now he has a hundred warships at his command. Bit of a step up eh?"

Sparatus turned back to the window, his body language clearly giving off the impression of being finished today.

"You can go now Vakarian. Thank you for your prompt response."

The Arterius household was in a relatively...what might be called upscale area of the capital, the type of quarters fit for high-ranking officers. A decent enough distance from Academy barracks to help ensure the children of such distinguished families did not get into trouble with local officer cadets, while simultaneously being near enough to the space port to significantly shorten the distance between duty and family, it was a true achievement in every sense for the concepts of form and function. Garrus consistently found himself impressed with this district, no matter how many times he came to visit.

Saren Arterius had always been something of a mentor for the Spectre. His father had known Saren in the early days of the war after leaving C-Sec to join the 314th Palaven Infantry, and the man had taken it upon himself to serve as something of a father-figure to the family after the elder Vakarian had been killed at the Battle of Intai'sei. Subsequently, he was quite close to both the man's two offspring, particularly Garrus, who often visited when the two of them both occupied the same world.

It was this fortuitous circumstance that brought him to the home of his old family friend. Standing before the large double doors, Garrus heard the bell chime, alerting the occupants to his presence. Moments later, Saren Arterius appeared at the door.

"Garrus my boy. Good to see you again."

Garrus, in turn, patted the older man on his shoulder.

"And you as well old friend."

Smiling slightly, Saren gestured into his home, inviting the active Spectre inside. Garrus nodded his head in appreciation, a similarly pleased countenance adorning his face as the door closed behind him. Walking towards the common room, he took note of the small collection of trophies and family pictures that adorned parts of the house on the way to the comfortably furnished living space, where small tray containing a bottle of brandy and some lisutre bread awaited on a table next to a dralfa board, its pieces all neatly arranged for their usual game. Garrus took a seat, eying his friend as he stood across from him for a moment.

The years had become increasingly unkind to Saren Arterius. Nearly a century of service in the turian military, the loss of his brother, wife, and child to the Hierarchy-Alliance War, and multiple brushes with death over the years showed on his graying fringe and wearied face. His body was propped on one natural leg and a prosthesis, the result of a human surprise attack. By virtue of a rare genetic quirk, no more likely than 1 in 50,000, causes his body to reject any and all attempts to graph a cloned limb to replace it, forcing him to make do with a mediocre replacement. Ironically, it was this injury that had gotten Saren out of the ground forces and into the navy, where he moved up the ranks rapidly and scored a number of impressive victories against the humans during his tenure as admiral. As such, he managed to keep relatively good humor about the whole situation.

The admiral took a seat across from Garrus, shifting slightly to get comfortable before leaning forward to pour the two of them a drink.

"You look well Garrus. It's good to see Spectre life agrees with you."

His younger counterpart leaned forward in kind to accept his drink.

"I suppose so. It seems to be spoiling me to off-time though, since every moment I find myself unoccupied feels like I'm just sitting around with my thumb up my ass."

Saren laughed lightly, leaning back into the chair and taking a sip.

"Sounds like a damn stupid hobby. Don't you have some sweet young thing to burn off some of this excess anxiety, or at least a nearby bar? Put enough liquor in one of them, even you might start looking acceptable."

Garrus chuckled in kind. This was a fine way to spend an afternoon. Saren always had been able to put him at ease.

"Let's put that in the 'maybe' list. What about you? What are you doing on the home world? Last I heard the 12th fleet was hunting for Alliance listening posts in the and forward bases in the 314 region."

Saren responded with a shrug.

"Layover for repairs. The fleet's been out of port for nearly a year and a half, we're long overdue for a refit and overhaul of some of the engines. Plus only half of the ships had been outfitted with FTL sensors. Idiots at the admiralty send us out on high-priority missions with enough ships, but don't think far enough ahead to equip us with some of those new sensor and comm packages despite having them in use for nearly 20 years. Hmph. Naval "intelligence" at its best hmm?"

Garrus shook his head in exasperation. Supplies were spread pretty thin these days, and the higher-ups were getting increasingly sloppy with logistics. Saren however, wasn't done.

"I'm getting pretty sick of this whole stupid affair though. I've been chasing and fighting the humans for almost 50 years now. It's getting old my friend."

Garrus quirked an eyebrow at that, not quite knowing what to say.

"But enough about me. I hear you had a meeting with Sparatus today. How is that old hawk?"

Garrus found himself eager to respond, glad to move away from the unpleasant direction of conversation.

"Pissed off, and a bit bitter. Partially at you it would seem. Know idea why though."

Saren just reclined further in his chair, grinning a bit.

"Oh, it could be any number of reasons. Could be that I remain in service while he's locked away in some corner office. Could be the fact that I was with his nephew when he died, or it could be that my attempts to comfort his sister led to...unexpected intimacy."

This drew a laugh from both of them.

"But it could be the same reason that I'm starting to feel bitter. We're both tired of watching the Hierarchy fight this damn war to no effect."

And back to the unpleasant direction.

"You're tired of fighting my friend?"

Saren just sighed.

"We've been fighting this war for nearly 50 years. Every day, thousands upon thousands of our finest men and women march to their deaths for land and stars we cannot hold. This war has taken something from every family on Palaven. It took Sparatus' children, its taken my family, my leg, and my entire life, and its taken your father. All for nothing. I'm tired of everyone losing so much for nothing. I imagine Sparatus is as well. I imagine every day he regrets the moment he let himself be swept up in the passions of our people and rail against the Alliance as he did, all but destroying our chance for peace in an instant. Spirits know I do."

Now Garrus was genuinely shocked.

"You would make peace with the humans, our most hated enemy?"

Saren shrugged again.

"Why not? I imagine they'd take the chance for peace if they believed the offer was genuine. And I've never really hated them. They've done to us only what we've done to them."

Further shock. At this point, Garrus was staring unabashedly, his drink forgotten.

"You seem surprised Garrus. You believed I was only capable of hatred for them, burning with a desire to murder them all for taking my family from me?"

Garrus just shook his head, trying to process what he just heard.

Saren sighed wearily, idly swirling the liquor in his glass as he stared into it.

"Did I ever tell you about the first time I fought a human? Not in space or from hundreds of meters away through a gun sight, but truly fought one?"

Garrus eyed him, not quite certain what this had to do with what they were talking about.

"No sir, I don't believe you have."

Saren continued to stare out onto the illuminated streets of Cipritine, the capital city, far below.

"I was 22 years old, only a lieutenant at the time. By the Spirits, I was strong then. I was fierce, headstrong, a heart full of fire, a head full of confidence, and two working legs. We had been fighting for 4 years at this point, and we had just taken the human outpost of New Rhodes. It was a hard victory, cost us a third of the flotilla and more than half our soldiers, but we did it. Of the human forces, 1 in 10 survived and were taken prisoner. There was this one man, couldn't have been much older than I, a lean fellow, with what I later heard described as an "olive" skin pigmentation. He kept leering at me, giving me this intense look like he was trying to bore through my scales with his eyes. We didn't know much about the humans at this time and I was unimpressed. 'Bunch of hairy asari' I thought, worthless without biotic power. So, I went to the quartermaster and got the blade that had been found on him, a long, heavy knife I later learned they called a machete. I arranged a fight circle for us to be made, removed my armor, and took my own blade in my hand. Then the fight was called.

The human moved like no being I had ever seen, twisting and flipping his body to evade, each of my strikes deflected. I scored some shallow cuts on him, but he ignored them and kept on. He knew just how to strike to wound me and cause injury, and his thrusts carried at least as much strength as my own. After about 10 minutes of fighting, he disarmed me, stabbed between my shoulder plates, and spun to kick me in the face, breaking one of my mandibles and knocking me to the ground. During the entire fight, he made not one sound, no shouts of battle, cries of victory, not even heavy breaths. You wouldn't have known he was tired except for the sweat that flew from his brow. Now he stood over me, still no sound, looking down at me with that same, intense gaze of hatred. He raised his weapon to finish me, and I couldn't help myself. I had no wish to die. I cried out in terror, hoping for something to save me. Nearby, a group of my comrades saw what was happening. They rushed over and opened fire on the man, riddling him with slugs.

It was the strangest thing. He didn't fall over at first. For a few second he just stood there, somehow still keeping his eyes on me, only this time his gaze was tinged with contempt. Then, he whispered something, so softly that I almost couldn't make it out."

Saren turned around, sighing wearily as he did so, a tired look in his eye. Garrus continued to stare, transfixed by the story, unable to make a sound.

"He spoke one word...'Coward'. Then he fell over, dead, his eyes still open. The man was struck by more than 30 bullets, and he forced himself to stay alive long enough to call me a coward before dying. And the worst part? He was right. And that is the reason I have never been able to bring myself to hate humans. Because the first one I ever met proved himself the better man. Because when he stared death in the face, he did not feel fear, only disgust for me, one who could not face it without fear."

Saren at last brought his gaze up from his drink and looked Garrus in the eye.

"Yes Garrus, I want this war to end, before it ends us."

Garrus' face turned slowly from surprise to vague horror.

"Ends us? Sure, the humans have fought us to a draw, but our forces are still larger, surely with time..."

Saren was quick to end this line of thought.

"That is the problem Garrus. Time. It favors the humans. When the conflict started, our forces outnumbered there's more than 10 to 1, and they still drove us out. The ratio after 50 years now stands at 3 to 1, and is shrinking every day. And even our superior numbers now stand as irrelevant. With our forces spread between our commitments to patrol the frontier of Council space and the growing discontent amongst our client worlds, the fleets and armies arranged against the humans are now nearly at numerical parity. In another 20 years, our clients may well be in open revolt and human forces, with no fronts to focus on other than ours, will start to pour into our borders. They were clever enough not to make any other enemies, while ours are practically innumerable."

Garrus sat, shocked into silence, not least because there was truth to be found in his words. With humans able to expand on the opposite end of the lines, as well as their carefully crafted political situation, particularly the peace with Omega and the Hegemony, the humans had only one direction to send their forces in. Saren carried on.

"More to the point, the humans are of the proper mindset for this conflict. Most of our people still view it as a matter of maintaining the strength and authority of the Council and the Hierarchy. The Alliance, however, views it as a war for survival."

Garrus nodded in response, well aware of the intense resistance the humans fought with when their territory was threatened.

"I never understood that. Surely the actions of Sparatus would make them view it as a war to shield their sovereignty and independence, but their actions and attitudes would suggest a deeper desperation than even that."

Saren shifted somewhat uncomfortably at this, trying to come to terms with what he was about to admit.

"The reason for that is rather simple. It's no secret that these days neither side bothers with prisoners or the like, but during the early days when we were making substantial inroads into Alliance territory, unexpectedly fierce resistance led to a handful of foolish officers making some truly disastrous decisions with regard to the occupied worlds."

Now Garrus was interested. He had, like the rest of the citizenry, seen the court martial of a number of higher-ups from the expeditionary forces, some even ending in executions, but the details of their actions had been left vaguely worded on the public record. Seeing the interest in the eyes of his young protegee, Saren was resigned to tell the whole story. He leaned forward again to refresh his drink before continuing.

"Tell me. Have you ever heard of the planet Mindoir...?"

A/N: Wow! This is my longest one yet. Thanks to all those who reviewed, it kept me motivated. Sorry for the delay, but it took me forever to figure out how to write this, and truth be told I remain vaguely unsatisfied. But, sometimes you've just got to push on. Also, I want to give a special shout out to Eterna1Soldier. It is always nice to receive positive feedback from readers, but it is doubly so to receive one from a fellow author, particularly one as skilled as Eterna1Soldier has shown (anyone who hasn't read Eterna1Soldier's ME/Halo story "Clash of Civilizations, I strongly recommend you start as soon as you can). Thanks to all readers, please keep sending reviews. They please me :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: There seems to be some confusion on this, though that may partially be my fault, so I wanted to try and clear this point up: this is **NOT** a pro-human wank fest. Humans in this time-line are not an all-powerful conquering force, nor are they some kind of morally-benign, noble super-species. They just **BARELY** managed to drive the turians from their space, and that was using an unprecedented, radical, and utterly desperate technology to throw-off the status quo. In order to ensure their survival and independence, they have made deals with pirates and slavers, and are quite happy to engage in horrific acts of violence and treachery to defend themselves. One thing I frequently dislike in sci-fi is how often authors, whether it is their intention or not, set out to make humanity "special." Humans in this time-line are not special, they've just gotten a few moments of desperate luck that spared them, as often happens in war.

**Chapter 5: The Roads to Hell**

_"I've... seen things you people wouldn't believe; attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion; I've watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those... moments... will be lost... in time, like... tears... in rain. Time...to die."_

_-**Roy Batty, Blade Runner** _

_It was the same. It was always the same. Well, that was not precisely true, every now and then there were minor variations, one of the quirks of an imperfect memory, but the essence remained. A sky blotted by fighter craft and troop transports, the screams and cries of men and women, the terrible wail of gunfire and sickening bursting of flesh and blood. Outside, she could hear the shouts of Hierarchy troops, their rough voices mixing unnaturally with the low-quality translator devices spitting various broken dialects of human tongue as Terran voices wailed and shouted in response, only to be ominously silenced moments later following bursts from assault rifles._

_ Throughout it all, little Aliya Shepard tried desperately to cover her ears, eyes shut as tightly as possible hoping this would all go away and she would wake up in a moment. Her eyes were welling up and threatened to spill, but she desperately held back her sobs, grasping at the childish hope that if she made no noise they would simply pass by. Her mother held her close as they made their way to the lower levels of the house as quickly as possible, speaking soft, comforting words to her offering assurance and some small measure of peace. Her father stood nearby, holding a pistol his eyes locked firmly on the door as he walked backwards with them towards the door to the sub-basement. They did what they could to cling to hope, knowing it was all in vain. The invaders were well-armed, and had with them floating eyes that could see through their walls._

_ Suddenly, there was a terrible crash, as a single object flew through the window. Quickly recognizing it, father tried to shield his family with his body and look away as the object suddenly burst into a terrible light and sound. A few second later, while still trying to gain their bearings, the door burst open, and a group of 4 turians smashed their way in. Father took a few shots towards the door with his pistol and a cry came from one of them before their leader knocked the weapon away and struck him in the head with the butt of his rifle. The elder Shepard was a strong man, but disoriented and outnumbered he was forced to the ground. Nearby, mother screamed at soldiers and tried to get to father, but was held back by one of the soldiers, as was little Aliya, who had long since stopped trying to remain silent, now wailing helplessly, begging them not to hurt Papa._

_ Through her tears, Aliya got a quick look at the horrible scene before her. One of the turians gripped her mother's shoulders, his talons no doubt digging painfully into her skin. Nearby, her father was being held down by an armored boot on the side of his neck, the hand once holding the weapon no likely already shattered. In the corner, the one her father had managed to hit was clutching at his arm, his purple and blue blood pouring slowly. Aliya herself was being restrained by the last turian, gently holding her by the back of her shirt. Her pleading seemed to illicit something approaching sympathy from the ones holding her and mother, giving what she assumed were pained looks at the sorrow and begging of their captives, but the one in the corner had no doubt had his capacity for sympathy diminished by his own wounds, and the one pointing a gun at Nathan Shepard seemed to be taking a cruel delight in having the human under his heel._

_ Father's face was still looking at both of them, his eyes strangely serene and blood flowing from his wounds as he tried to mouth words of comfort to mother and daughter, telling them not to fear, this would all soon be over. And suddenly, it was. A single 3-burst volley, at point blank range from the captor's weapon, opened his skull and sprayed blood and gray matter in a dozen directions. What followed was the most dreadful of silences. The one's holding Aliya and her mother, Sisya, let go of their captives, and wordlessly they collapsed to the ground, their disbelieving eyes boring into what remained of the male Shepard. _

_ Several moments and heavily-armored steps later, the home was emptied of the presence of the Hierarchy, leaving only the 2 distraught females staring at the eviscerated remains of Nathan Shepard. Slowly, little Aliya made her way, step by step, towards the shell that once housed her father, uttering no word, her light footsteps betraying no movement, till she stood over his form. And with that, the small girl collapsed to her knees, looked up into the heavens, and screamed..._

Aliya Shepard shot out of her bed with a heave-ho of furious breaths, trying to recapture the serene inhale-exhale pattern necessary for rational thought. Slowly, her gasps for air subsided, leaving only slow, deep breaths to help bridge her mentality back to something approaching calm. Finally back to normal, she slowly reclined back into the bed, reflecting on what she had just seen in her mind's eye, an all too common vision that would not, and should not, ever leave her. In a cruel sense, it was one of the only things Aliya had left of them, after so much was left behind that she could not bear to keep, and the hateful nature of human memory slowly robbing her of a clear vision of their time before that terrible tragedy. Glancing around her (relatively) spacious yet spartan cabin, Shepard came swiftly to the conclusion that she was unlikely to return to sleep after that, so she might as well get an early start today.

Briefly stretching her limbs over her head to move blood through the arms, Aliya rose from the bunk/bed and stumbled towards an empty corner of the room. From there, she broke into a habit that she had carried with her for decades: morning calisthenics. Light cardio, push-ups, pull-ups, squats, working the punching bag, everything that had been beaten into her over the years as a necessary part of a morning routine. Coming to an end about an hour later, she at last brought herself to the cabin lavatory. Quickly stripping, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the wonderful luxury of hot-water on her skin. A bit of an extravagance in space travel, only a handful of individuals went out of their way to install a secondary power source to heat water above room temperature, Shepard's time in the military had the unintended side-effect of making her swear an oath to never again go without the ability to indulge in this minor miracle whenever she damn well pleased. After basking for a while, she stepped out to examine herself, a ritual Aliya never missed.

Her eyes slowly moved up her exposed flesh, carefully examining every scar made, as she recalled what made that particular mark upon her flesh. What enemy had nearly gotten the best of her, how she had avoided it, and in what manner she made them pay with their life. Each kill, each narrow escape, a lesson and a purpose driving her forward. The hardest one's of course brought memories of fallen comrades, of foes who had fallen before her after she failed to save subordinates, superiors, and friends. The most recent one lay just under her left breast, only a few centimeters from her heart. That one had been from some krogan mercenary, one of the younger and stupider ones. Normally one so inexperienced would be no match for her, but she had been overconfident (and a little drunk). Foolish or not, krogan were still strong and tough as hell, and this one knocked her over and nearly nicked a ventricle with his knife thrust. Miraculously, it just barely missed and she was able to keep her wits about long enough to blast a new hole in the dumb bastard with a shotgun. She kept the knife, a little extra reminder never hurt to have.

Eventually, her gaze rested straight into the mirror, allowing her to view her face. She had always loved having a moment to look at herself. So much of the lost Shepards was there. Her mother's dark skin and hair, her father's light blue, almost gray eyes. The nose that crinkled in delight at the smell of burning wood. The brow that furrowed in mock concentration at her bed-time stories. So much of them staring back at her, it was like they were all together again for a brief moment every day. Usually, that was all Aliya needed to help get her through the morning.

At last tearing herself from the sights of the past, Shepard quickly dried herself and threw on a set of casual clothing. Grateful she no longer had to confine herself to the stuffy, uncomfortable garb of a professional soldier, she settled on a pair of loose fitting blue fatigues and gray t-shirt. Her skin a bit chilled from the sudden exposure to not-hot water air, she threw on a loose fitting cotton jacket for good measure. At last ready to face the day and jonesing something awful for coffee and a bite to eat, she at last made her way out of the cabin.

Upon exiting the lift that brought her from the Captain's cabin to the mess, she made her way to their resident cook/jack of all trades, Will Allen. A lucky break snagging him, this fellow could throw together a gourmet meal with the worst of ingredients, as well as maintain every last piece of creature comfort tech on the ship. To top it all off, he was a discrete individual, good for confiding a secret in with nothing more than a simple "business o' no one but you an' me captain." Nodding to his polite little salute, a courtesy she seemed incapable of breaking anyone of on this ship of, she gratefully took a cup of black coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and fresh fruit, just the way she liked it.

Sparing herself a private little grin of contentment, she claimed a spot in mess hall table and took a pleasing little sip of coffee with just a touch of nutmeg. Her grin growing wider, she glanced towards her old friend, who only responded with a nonchalant shrug. As though he didn't know what he did.

_'Oh Will, you magnificent bastard. You were sent to us by the gods I say.'_

As she waited a moment for her food to cool, she spared a further glance at the small gathering of crew members now arrayed before her. _The Ronin_ was not a large vessel. With a crew of exactly 53, it was about 2/3rd's the size of a Manticore-class frigate. However, what might otherwise have become dedicated cargo space was instead devoted to ship-to-ship combat weapons and cutting edge shield arrays, it was a formidable weapon, a notable feature of nearly everything Cerberus had it's hands in. Likewise, the crew, though small, were all experienced fighters. A handful of adventurers who had made their way fighting with the irregular forces in the service of the Alliance against the turians, Corsairs and the like. Most, however, followed Shepard from the early days. The one's who bore the same tattoo that emblazoned Captain Aliya Shepard's back. It was a simple thing, an upward pointing arrow. It was TIWAZ, the victory rune, bringer of strength and justice. A promise of the survivors of Mindoir. It was the mark of the Valkyries.

The Battle of Mindoir had proven unexpectedly costly for the Turian Hierarchy, as the Alliance forces in the Ketrel System fought desperately to hold onto the Relay Nexus in that sector of space. It took nearly 4 months for the turians to finally rout the human fleet. What followed was an even more excruciating land battle. The colony had about 40 million settlers, with about 1/3rd in the 3 major cities, and the rest dispersed throughout smaller outlying communities across the planetary surface.

Mindoir had been unusually large for such a young colony, but humanity had experienced something of a population boom in the years leading up to the war. During the first half of the 20th century, human numbers had increased from 6.5 billion in 2000, to nearly 9 billion by 2050. With the advent of space travel and the discovery of FTL technology, that growth had accelerated. No longer held back by the concerns of draining the resources of a single world, millions upon millions spread out over the course of 50 years, and in turn had millions upon millions of offspring. Thanks to advances in telecommuting and tele-operational technologies allowing for parents to easily carry on careers while raising families, the vast expanding of the periods of human fertility thanks to extended, increasingly healthy life-spans, and a wide array of effective artificial methods for offering same-sex spouses the chance to build families, the human species multiplied as never before with the promise of a new home and new chances among the stars. It was this promise that had brought her father from a borough of New York and her mother from an apartment in downtown Mombasa to the new colony, to start a new life together during the biggest land rush in the history of Mankind.

It was this same burst of new vitality that managed to slow the tide of the turian onslaught upon the colony. A sizable garrison force managed to inflict grievous hurt upon the legions that threw themselves against it, reluctant to use orbital strikes lest they damage their new supply-line world. Even more troubling was the so-called 'civilian' population, from whom a growing number were carrying out partisan attacks behind the lines. In an effort to stamp out these attacks and break the resistance of the planet, the Commanding General Levantus J'Tral, without authorization from the Primarchs, decided upon a most horrific course of action, known only as "Command Edict 376."

At the time of the Battle of Mindoir, only about 13% of the human forces were female, with only a handful serving in the front. While there was no official discrimination against them nor prohibitions against front-line combat, most Alliance women were assigned various support roles, with only a few deemed "fit" for the main theater. From these demographics, the turians had assumed that only the human males had it in them to act as soldiers. From this assumption, the Edict commanded the summary extermination of every last Terran Male of age in all territory held upon the world of Mindoir, which at the time held roughly 3/4ths of the colonial population. Within 2 months, there was not a male human in any settlement within that zone of control over the age of 14. Nearly 13 million men and adolescents executed in cold blood, a task made all the easier by virtue of simply bombing the labor camps that the turians had already forced most able-bodied men to work in over the course of their conquests. It was the single greatest atrocity committed by any individual during the war up to that point, and, if rumor was to be believed, marked the first time a sizable portion of turian officers actually refused to carry out their orders. Though it ultimately proved a futile gesture since they were merely replaced with others who would obey. It was what had taken Nathan Shepard away from his wife and 9 year old daughter, after they sent in roving death squads to mop any who had eluded their more efficient methods of extermination.

It was not a successful policy. Following the pogrom, General J'Tral found his minor saboteur issue had turned into a full-on insurrection. Every man killed was a son, brother, husband, friend or fellow citizen to the survivors, slain to satisfy the murderous blood lust of their enemy. It was a grievance the occupied could no longer accept. Millions of women took up arms in response, and formed the largest guerrilla army in recorded history, eventually making their way to human-held territory to link up with the tattered remnants of the Alliance regulars. This sudden influx of new blood halted the turians and even began to slowly push them back to the Capital city, despite the complete orbital superiority held by the Hierarchy. Hundreds of thousands of these hastily trained volunteers were killed in the fighting, including Sisya Shepard, in the first 6 months of renewed fighting, and combat would last another 6 years, but they managed to hold the line until the colony was ultimately relieved during the Alliance counteroffensive.

Aliya, having already falsified her age and joined the Mindoir resistance army at age 15, was voluntarily absorbed into the Alliance Armed forces along with most of her comrades. With years of experience in warfare, both open-field and guerrilla tactics, they were a welcome addition to the Human armies. Finding a highly valued niche as shock troops and assault forces, the women and handful of surviving men quickly gained reputation as the infamous "Valkyrie Divisions." Along with their reputation as fearless, aggressive soldiers, they also stood out with one other unique distinction as the only divisions that were overwhelmingly female. While women today now made up 40% of the Alliance forces, the Valkyrie Divisions to this day remained nearly 90% female.

Finally finished with her breakfast, Shepard placed her tray in the dispenser, nodded to her crew at the table, and made her way to the bridge. On the way she passed a wide variety of her subordinates, each giving that damned salute to her. Most of them had served under her throughout her tenure as a Lieutenant Colonel during the final 5 years of her time, before receiving the honorable discharge afforded to all officers who wished for it following 12 years of service. It was an option she had disdained for quite some time, contentedly serving in the front lines for nearly 30 years before accepting the offer from Cerberus. While loath to leave the service, she concluded that the options to strike against the turians were far greater under the hidden auspices of the private splinter group. She had apparently caught the Illusive Man's eye as a Major during the Tanegra Campaign, her supposedly brilliant leadership and sheer balls-out insanity allowing her to blunt and turn an ambush from a Hierarchy force several times the size of her company. This, on top of her experience as a covert infiltrator during her time as a partisan soldier on Mindoir, left her with a highly desirable skill set and reputation. Offering her both a ship and wide operational latitude, she agreed on the condition that she could crew it with men and women of her own choosing. He had agreed, and over the past 10 years it had proven to be a most fortuitous relationship between the 2 parties, even if Shepard's flair for independent and occasionally reckless action tended to irk the Cerberus leader. Though her results could never be questioned.

Finally, Shepard's path led her to the main bridge, and into the company of her pilot, Jeff "Joker" Moreau.

"How goes it Joker? We still on schedule?"

Shifting his chair around, Joker smirked slightly at his Captain, the only one who got the message and didn't greet her with the unwanted formality of her remaining crew.

"No problems on this end Captain, though I'm forced to credit that to the unusually light patrols in this system rather than any actual skill on our part."

Shepard smirked in kind.

"What's the matter Mr. Moreau? Bored already?"

Joker remained unfazed.

"Bored Captain? Why would I be bored? Just because we've been drifting idly in the ass end of the Terminus for reasons not even our illustrious Illusive Man is aware of? What could possibly be dull about that?"

Shepard merely responded with glare of mock warning.

"Careful Joker. I enjoy you somewhat, I'd hate to have to kill you and shunt your corpse out an airlock."

Joker just grinned a little more.

"Well, at least I wouldn't be bored anymore."

At last Shepard couldn't maintain her facade and chuckled lightly.

"Very well Joker. Just do what you do best and let me know if anything comes up. I'll inform you of when it's time to act. With luck, it won't be much longer."

Shrugging slightly, Joker swiveled his chair back to view the holographic controls and external cameras before him.

"Glad to hear. I enjoy the beauty, magnificence and so forth of the universe as much as the next guy, but I'm getting pretty sick of staring out at a bunch of space rocks. Those pirates we've been chilling with aren't too pretty a sight either."

Shepard turned to leave at this.

"It'll be over soon Joker, just be ready when the moment comes."

As she left to speak with the Nav officer, she heard a light, surprisingly serious voice follow her.

"I always am Captain."

20 Minutes Later...

Shepard's discussion with her XO Maria Rodriguez on the upcoming operation was brought to an abrupt end when she was informed that the Illusive Man was on the line for her. Swiftly making her way to the Com-Room, she accessed a secondary, concealed quantum communication system, reserved exclusively for private discussions with the one pulling the strings of the Cerberus Network. After engaging the holographic transmitter, she stepped into the ring and suddenly was standing before the seated figure of the Illusive Man. Aliya had to admit, he cut a rather impressive figure, in his impeccable black suit, holding a lit cigarette in one hand with what appeared to be a dying star in the background. He was the apex of confident professional.

However, it was nothing that Shepard hadn't seen before, and thus she stood with crossed arms and a bored look on her face, indicating that she wanted this to be over with to get on with her work. Her employer got the hint.

"Shepard, I just received word that you're in position."

Aliya nodded slightly.

"That's about right. Is that all you called me for?"

TIM took a drag of his cigarette, his unnaturally blue eyes narrowing in irritation.

"Don't take that tone with me Shepard. I've staked a lot on this, without receiving more than the scantest of details from you in regards to plans and virtually nothing concerning goals. If I want a goddamn status update, you're going to give me one."

Shepard's calm visage didn't waiver.

"Our status is adequate Tim. We're in place and ready to light this candle when it shows."

His eye twitching slightly at her little nickname for him, TIM brought his other hand towards the glass of amber liquor resting on the small table next to his chair.

"I give you wide latitude Shepard, more so than any other operative working for this organization. And up until now, despite a handful of unintended consequences, it has worked to my advantage. Even this situation has paid unexpected dividends, regardless of my lack of knowledge with regards to the ultimate goals. But I don't like getting things when I don't know what the cost is. I give you access to unprecedented levels of resources, and the assistance of one of our best agents, and in return you give me no details on what your plan is, other than 'it will deliver a decisive blow to the enemies of Mankind.' So, for the sake of your exceptional service over this past decade, I will continue to give you the benefit of the doubt. However, if this plan fails, whatever it is, I am not above disavowing you from this organization and throwing you to the wolves. Understood?"

Aliya's relaxed posture never changed during his rant. She had been threatened before, a few times by men almost as dangerous as him. She had confidence in her plan, more so than at any other time in her life.

"Understood. Was there anything else?"

One more sip. Probably scotch. It tended to be the preferred drink for men who fancied themselves gods.

"Have her contact me when its over."

Nodding slightly, Shepard stepped away from the platform, allowing it to slowly deactivate. She made her way back to her cabin, moving with a graceful, hurried gait. She needed a moment to think and reflect. Finally making her way through the sliding door, she moved to the back of the room. There, she pressed a hidden button, opening a small, concealed space, her own little meditation chamber. Sitting in the chair at the center of the 5 meter by 5 meter space, the door behind her closed as she reclined back. All around her, the room lit with the sight of the Armstrong Nebula, the first thing (and only) thing she saw in space who's beauty actually moved her to tears. In the background, the _Eroica_ symphony began to play as she closed her eyes.

The little row between her and the Illusive Man was not an unusual one. She had heard similar words from him many times over the years, only for for them to be swallowed later upon her success. She did not fail, it was simply not in her nature. This plan would work, it had to. For all of humanity, it had to work.

By all terms of military logic, the turians could have, should have, won the war in the early years. Despite humankind not being limited in their population growth as the other council species, whether it be the Turian's militaristic, not exactly family-friendly culture, the Asari not reaching the height of libido for a couple of centuries, or the Salarians living briefly and having such ridiculously elaborate mating rituals, a thousand year head start gave the Hierarchy a decisive edge in terms of population and fleet size. If they had pushed hard and fast enough, they probably could have smashed their way to Earth inside of 6 years, regardless of how vast space was. However, while on paper their forces should have been in the Sol System in half a decade, they were hampered by their own military philosophies.

Despite their unwavering advocacy of total war, or perhaps because of it, the Turians were beyond thorough. Having spent centuries fighting enemies who's planets provided non-compatible food, they had more or less lost all concept of what humans referred to as "blitzkrieg." If it took them a couple of years to completely secure a star cluster, they'd invest the couple of years, ensuring there was no threat to their supply lines or reinforcements. Also, their accurate estimations of the rough numbers of human forces caused them to dedicate no more than 1/3rd of their forces to their campaign against the Alliance, not willing to spread themselves too thin given their galaxy wide commitments as peace-keepers. Even though this portion still outnumbered the combined human fleets by nearly 3 times, in combination with their slow, methodical advance it bought humanity enough time to learn to fight a proper interstellar war and pull their trick behind enemy lines.

Now, things were beginning to change for the humans. The Turians were still hampered by their commitments to the council, and had increasingly dissatisfied client worlds to deal with. To speak nothing of the Batarian Hegemony and an increasingly united Terminus Systems to try and hold back as they licked their lips at the Hierarchy's plight. And with Alliance front-line forces nearing numerical parity with the front-line turian forces, and only one direction to go, things were looking quite tenuous for mighty Palaven. Like proud Rome centuries ago, they had become victims of their own success. Now, the barbarians were at their gates, and Shepard intended to bring them into the city and burn everything.

As the symphony drew to a close, Shepard realized it was time to return, this little respite would have to continue later. Exiting her isolation chamber, she walked to her desk to contact her fellow operative.

"EDI, would you join me in my cabin for a moment?"

Mentani System...

Antonoya Krantus was not normally a particularly hot-headed turian. Oh sure, she had had her moments in her youth, been thrown out of more than a handful of bars during boot camp, nearly charged headlong into battle situations that probably should have killed her. By and large though, 20 years of service in the Turian Navy, the last 4 of which were spent as captain of her own ship, _Magna's Blade_, had forged her into a thoughtful, effective officer. Unfortunately, being stuck on convoy escort for the past year had begun to rile up her blood again.

It was the new reality the Hierarchy found itself in. With attacks on merchant vessels, particularly those of the Volus and Turians, at an all time high and increasing, a growing number of ships normally dedicated to front-line combat or patrolling for pirates and slavers were being forced to switch to a rotating service, being used for a couple of years at a time to watch the merchants, then returning to their original duties, then back to another period of convoy patrol. After 3 years of fighting humans and pirates on the frontier, the tense boredom of babysitting merchant vessels was growing tedious. Combined with how wasteful it seemed to use a ship with the firepower of her light cruiser only made it worst.

Still though, the war with the humans had produced some pretty interesting changes. Standing behind her subordinates in the bridge, she glanced around at the radical assembly of new technology that had been developed at a pace not seen for centuries. During the early years, when the humans first managed to slip their way into Hierarchy space (Antonoya's money was still on some kind of revolutionary stealth tech), the Primarchs had been at a loss to try and figure out some kind of defense against it. With no way of knowing exactly where they'd strike, they couldn't station ships at every likely target, it simply was not economical. The solution came when they captured a mostly intact human frigate following a minor skirmish in the Tyrok system. While most of the ship's computer data had been erased, the vessel's antimatter reactor was still surprisingly intact.

Up until then, nearly every vessel in Citadel space used fusion reactor tech, with anti-matter reactors remaining rare and highly dangerous. The humans were the first to find a way to safely use it on a wide-scale, particularly as a power source for warships. Access to this new energy source opened up a wide array of unprecedented options in the field of Hierarchy weapons development. Particularly directed energy weapons, which before then had been limited to low-powered lasers. The first breakthrough was in the field of plasma weaponry. Before, plasma had never been viable as a weapon, since the energized particles spread out upon escaping whatever contained them, the so-called 'Blooming Effect'. Antimatter technology now provided enough power to create a magnetic field to maintain the cohesion of the heated plasma stream for hundreds of thousands of kilometers, and accelerate the stream at nearly 40% the speed of light. While dissemination of antimatter reactors and plasma weapons began to slowly spread out amongst the fleet, the real breakthrough came in the field of defense. Combining dangerously massive antimatter reactors and a revolutionary breakthrough in the field of wireless power transmission, the Turian Hierarchy created the first truly effective automated defense network.

Defense platforms had always been a hypothetical military planner's ideal.. However, with the recoil from mass accelerator weapons knocking such low-mass constructs out of their orbits, there was no weapon with the range and power needed to fight off capital ships that could be mounted on such a platform. Plasma weapons provided that solution. Though the power requirements demanded antimatter reactors too dangerous to ever be used in a system like that of Palaven, it was a highly effective means of defense for the frontier worlds most vulnerable to human raiders, an idea proven by the 3rd time such a fleet sneaked into their space. Though they destroyed much of the network, they lost more than half their fleet and were forced to flee, their kinetic barriers actually making the plasma weapons more effective as their attempts to deflect the energized particles actually spread the super-heated gas over a wider area of the ship, eating away at capital ship armor like it was tissue paper.

After this overwhelming success, turian military planners thought they at last had a weapon to overwhelm the humans. After a couple of years, when the majority of their fleet now had ship-mounted plasma weapons, they launched a second offensive into human space. However, the time they spent preparing had given humans time to prepare as well, in which they found that modified radiation shield tech, normally used on research stations inside less-than-hospitable star systems, could, in conjunction with antimatter energy output, be made powerful enough to defend against the tremendous heat of plasma weapons for a time, just as kinetic barriers were used to block mass accelerator weapons. After another 3 years of fighting, the offensive sputtered to a halt and was forced to retreat once more.

Thus it continued on for the past several decades. Turians made plasma weapons, humans made energy shields. Humans developed tachyon-based communication technology, Turians developed FTL sensors. Each side would eventually get there hands on whatever their enemy had invented and by now both sides were pretty much qualitatively equal, roaming around in warships with kinetic and directed energy weapons, with barriers that shielded against both, saw ships coming even at interstellar speeds and could track vessels in system in real-time, regardless of how many light-seconds they were from each other, and traveled faster than ever. Practically overnight, everything had changed, all because the humans didn't know how you were _supposed_ to fight an interstellar war.

Antonoya smirked as she thought back to her father, a captain himself back in the day, complaining about how humans had fucked everything up. About how much more elegant warfare was back in his day. He still bitched loudly when drunk about how he didn't believe the rumors about that so-called Carrier vessel, until one of them and a handful of escorts destroyed a task force he was part of 4 times its size, including one of the dreadnaughts (and heavily damaging the other). At the time, few wanted to admit how that one human desperation tactic had pretty much made dreadnaughts obsolete in a single battle, given that a well-positioned moving carrier was a far more effective naval weapon. Turians had been fighting in space one way for so long, they were at first pretty reluctant to switch gears. But they adapted. Necessity demanded it.

Shaking herself from these musings, she glanced towards her helmsman.

"How long until we drop out of FTL?"

Said officer quickly glanced at the left side display.

"Just under 4 minutes captain."

Nodding slightly, Antonoya's view returned to the external camera displays. It would be good to see sub-relativistic space again. They'd been traveling at FTL speeds for the past 3 days and were preparing to drop into the Mentani System, a fairly common layover site for discharging drive cores. It would take about 4 hours to vent all of it, giving them some time to rest a moment. Suddenly, the ship VI spoke up.

"Deceleration begun. Dropping to sub-light velocities in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..."

A slight shift in inertia later, the convoy dropped back into normal space. A total of 22 merchant vessels, along with Antonoya's light cruiser and 5 frigates, returned to formation on an approach vector towards the 2nd planet orbiting the star.

"Helm, standard discharge procedures. Bring us into geostationary orbit to prepare for descent. Let me know when we hit atmo."

At this, the nav officer tapped quickly away on the holo-display.

"So I shall Captain."

Falling in synch, the ships made steady speed towards the planet, passing through the asteroid belt separating the 3rd and 2nd planets. Suddenly, warning klaxons erupted all around. The sensor officer's voice pierced the deck.

"Incoming, incoming! Unidentified vessels on attack vectors. Reading 12, no 16 ships. Repeat, 16 unidentified ships on attack vectors!"

Moving quickly to the bridge center to take stock of the situation, Antonoya began delivering orders in rapid succession as her years of training and experience took over.

"Raise shields, divert all non-essential power to weapon and propulsion systems. Hail the merchant ships, tell them to make for the outer-edge of the system and call for help, and would someone get us a fucking firing solution?"

Her 1st responded quickly.

"They shouldn't make for the planet Captain?"

Antonoya glanced quickly towards him.

"If they make for the planet and attempt to discharge their drive cores, their coms will be rendered inoperable. It'll take at least 3 hours for them to complete the process. If we fail to hold the pirates off, they're dead anyway. Hopefully we can call in some reinforcements from somewhere."

The ship was suddenly rocked to 30 degrees on its axis, the inertial dampening effect not quite compensating and giving them a bit of a jolt. The VI blared unemotionally.

"Kinetic energy strike on dorsal port, 254 degrees from at rest axis. Kinetic barrier at 87%."

Shaking her head quickly, Antonoya realized they must have been hiding in the asteroids, running on minimal power to disguise themselves as interstellar debris. Hopefully, if it was just a local pirate group, they might not be armed with high-grade energy shields or plasma weapons. They seemed to know what they were doing though, awaiting to strike in a region commonly used for drive core discharge, knowing there was no way any such ships would make the attempt to try and escape to FTL speeds, lest the static discharge ensure their death.

Space combat, despite the changes it had experienced over these past decades, was largely based on the same ideas as the past. No matter the weapons, the goal remained identical: maneuver your vessel outside the firing arc of your enemy while trying to target them within your own firing arc. Kinetic energy weapons were somewhat limited in that regard, since mass accelerators ran along the spine of the vessel and fired in a straight line, their paths altered by the movement angles of the warship. Plasma weapons however, were really nothing more than magnetic field projectors which contained the plasma stream. Hence, several of them could be place along a vessel's broadside, as well as in front, or turreted on the top or bottom, giving a ship up to a 300 degree firing arc in any rotational axis along its center of gravity, excepting the rear lest the plasma stream interfere with the propulsion system. However, while mass accelerators had a virtually infinite range, the range of plasma weapons varied between 800,000 kilometers, and 2,000,000 kilometers for larger ships. Hence, the trick was to either be quick and close, or get some distance and hope your targeting VI is up-to-date enough for an accurate kinetic energy shot. The ships attacking the _Magna's Blade_ were smaller and far more nimble, and subsequently were quick to get off their shots at close range.

Knowing they had only a brief moment of opportunity before her weapon's came on-line, 8 of the 16 warships formed up while the remainder broke off to deal with the turian frigates. They got in close in a delta formation, aligned their guns, and each let loose a single 20 kg slug at 2% light speed, their short distance allowing the shots to make contact 8 seconds later on the underside of the ship, the combined fire penetrating the kinetic barriers of the cruiser and impacting the hull. This was followed closely by a small group of disruptor torpedoes, who's path was undeterred by the point defense particle cannons damaged in the initial assault Armor bent and warped along the points of contact, and 2 holes appeared at the points, venting oxygen and turians alike. 7 of the ships immediately broke off to join the others in battling the frigates, 1 of whom was already destroyed though at the cost of 2 disabled pirate vessels. Moments later, the torpedoes struck the rear engines, shearing off a portion of the drive section.

Nearby, the remaining 13 pirate ships engaged the Turian frigates. Though pound for pound a Hierarchy frigate was more than a match for a mercenary vessel of comparable tonnage, the remaining 4 were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Primarily dedicated to anti-fighter support and fast group strikes against larger warships, they were armed with a single spinal KE cannon, one top mount and one underside mount plasma turret, a handful of disruptor torpedoes, and covered in point defense GARDIAN II particle cannons, a necessary advance in the face of fighters now mounting small-scale energy shields which were highly effective against old style laser weapons. Against other frigates, however, battles turned into vicious knife fights.

The Arcana-class frigates maintained a sizable maneuverability advantage over the mish-mash of mercenary craft, and twisted and dodged about, positioning themselves along the broadside to align their particle cannons for strafing shots, before rapidly rotating upon it axis to place them within the firing arc of the plasma turrets. However, they were being tagged by 3 brigand ships each, working in surprisingly effective tandem. Though their rate of fire was less than half that of the turian ships, the 3 pirate vessels firing in tandem overwhelmed their barriers with a barrage of particle weapons. As they swerved to try to escape the firing arc, other pirates would suddenly switch targets, placing the now vulnerable craft in-line with their mass accelerators. Despite losing a further 3 craft, 2 destroyed utterly, the remaining turian vessels were lost or disabled over the course of 36 minutes of fierce combat.

Several hundred thousand kilometers away, the already crippled _Magna's Blade_ remained locked in combat with what seemed to be the flagship of this little operation. Though not a particularly large craft, it soon became clear that this thing, shaped vaguely like a cross between an Asari transport and a Human frigate, was far tougher than it looked. Shrugging off and dodging particle beam fire, it closed in from the underside, determined to finish what the first run had started. The cruiser was able to get off a single shot with it's under-mount plasma turret, though this produced merely a shocked command staff at what appeared to be a barely singed semi-frigate plowing through, before returning fire with it's own front mounted plasma cannon. The stream of super-heated gas carved through the weakened energy shields and slammed into the already damaged hull, eating away at the vessel's ablative armor.

Suddenly, firing ceased, as the _Magna's Blade _ceased fire and slowly began to list into a lateral spin, it's propulsion system no longer functioning properly. Atmosphere bled from the once mighty vessel and uncontrolled internal fires could be seen throughout the outer hull. Deciding to bring the affair to an end, the _Ronin _fired one more blast from its forward cannon. The plasma stream made contact with vessel and sliced the ship in half. The stream cut off, and seconds later the _Magna's Blade _loose a final flash of light as the reactor was split and the uncontrolled collision of matter and antimatter obliterated 300 lives instantly.

The remaining 12 ships returned to formation and proceeded on an intercept trajectory. The merchant vessels had nearly made it beyond the edge of their jamming range, and they needed to be quick to ensure the survivors could not signal for help. They still had a job to finish, and the surviving mercenary crews had a payday to cash in on.

Second A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks for all your feedback, it drives me onwards. It took me forever to get this right, I'm hard pressed to try and imagine how space combat might take place, given that its extremely theoretical at this point. I hope my portrayal of it made at least a little sense. Its weird, but I feel strangely compelled to see this increasingly complicated plot through to the end. Side note, it has been pointed out to me that St. Petersburg is no where near the Black Sea (actually Baltic Sea). Sorry about that, I will make the needed correction. I hope to see this through to the end, keep sending me those reviews to help make it happen!


	6. Chapter: Interludes

_A/N: Hey all, sorry it took me so long. Between work, moving, and writers block, my muse just ain't been jiving with me. This isn't quite a true chapter, but I was hoping to broaden the picture a little bit. To those who might be wondering why I've decided to go with a Fem Shep, the answer is actually quite simple. While I always played through with a Male Shep (seriously, what was I gonna do? **Not** romance Tali?! Pssh, madness...), the voice acting of Jennifer Hale was by far superior, and so I figured I'd do a fem Shep play-through in fan-fiction form. What follows in this chapter is a series of what might be called vignettes , written from the POV of three different major players in the galaxy, giving a glimpse of the affairs that surround the First Contact War but is not directly involved. As such, it is not technically part of the main plot, which I will be returning to in the next chapter. Enjoy! _

"**He who does not punish evil, commands it to be done." **

**-**Leonardo Da Vinci

_Interludes: Twilight Empires, Rising Dominions _

**Citadel, Serpent Nebula**

Tevos had always been partial to the study of sayings. Essentially miniature proverbs, they offered keen insights into the culture and species that produced them. Whether they were expressions concerning not punching a Na'thaak on the nose or the importance of facing the future with stalwart courage, each one offered a window into the heart and soul of an individual and the world they came from, an valued skill for a diplomat and a leader. However, there was one that she had always had trouble grappling with for many years, who's wisdom had only recently begun to come into focus for her. She had heard it uttered only once, in the presence of the Human ambassador 40 years ago.

Following the disastrous Council Session that set the tone of misery and anguish that was to sing out across the galaxy, she had approached Ambassador Bascov on the evening before their vessel returned to human space. Making every effort to appeal to him, she stressed to him that while they could not bring themselves to be directly involved at this, if the the Alliance would simply bide its time the Asari and Salarians could pressure the Turians back to the negotiating table. Bascov, while vaguely sympathetic to the situation her government found themselves in, simply set his face in a stoney gaze and asked her when that would be. How much time should the Alliance allow the Hierarchy to rebuild it's forces and regain the initiative while the Republics tried to sell peace to a species of pissed-off professional soldiers?

In retrospect, Tevos knew that it had been a foolish request to ask a nation to just sit back and wait for the next attack with no guarantee that peace was even an option any longer, yet she still felt compelled to try. Taking one last chance to appeal to the better angels of his nature, she asked him if he truly realized the magnitude of what this war would mean. Reminding him gently of the horrors and suffering his civilization had already endured (some even she was reluctant to believe), Tevos asked if he was ready to condemn his people to lead lives of further pain, hardship, and bloodshed? As she said it, Bascov turned his gaze directly towards her, and for a moment she thought he might try and lash out against her for her presumption in trying to remind _him_ of what _his_ people had endured. But instead he simply shrugged and uttered the words she had only now begun to comprehend.

_"Life sucks and then you die. That's the way it's always been, and probably always will be."_

He then turned his back to her and walked over to his desk, politely but firmly requesting that she leave his guest quarters so he might rest for his trip tomorrow. Slightly taken aback, she merely nodded and left. His words...they seemed so strange, carrying a sentiment of such cruel fatalism that she wondered if he might have stolen them from the mouth of a Krogan, before dismissing the thought out of hand, since it was unlikely he had ever seen one in person. No, this thought was his own, and he spoke it with the oblique certainty of a truism, of a self-evident idea his people believed in with absolute certainty. It was more than just a private thought, it was a saying, a piece of ancient wisdom passed down through the epochs of human history in one form or another. And now, wearily slumped back in her office chair, a list of reports in one hand and the other poised over her own miniature galaxy map, she was growing more and more cognizant of the truth behind the human's strange words.

Tevos was growing old, even for an Asari. Pushing 9 and a half centuries, she had been through a lot in her time. She had had many partners in her time, produced many children, seen many things. But her partners were long dead (except for a particularly stubborn old Krogan), she had never really been all that close to most of her children, and much of what she had seen was during her time as an Asari commando, quite a bit of which she wished was possible to _un_see. Over the past 200 years, her real love had been the Republics, and the Council system her people had created and in large part still dominated. They were her true love, her true family. And as she sat there, reading the daily reports of its slow death rattle, she could at least agree that, at the moment, life truly did suck. Hard. And it might yet be the death of them all.

Much as the Asari loved to go on at great length about their fabled commandos and the Salarians of their oh so mighty STG, the hard fact was both species made for shoddy military powers in open warfare. First the Rachni, then the Krogan, whenever faced with real military threats to Council Space, they had been proven poor leaders, neither capable of fielding or leading large-scale professional armies, nor possessing biologies conducive to the long-term rigors of combat. The Hierarchy had seemed like a god-send. A massive, well-equipped military machine, leaders with the proper strategic mindset for tactics and logistics, individual soldiers with both the strength of body and discipline of mind for the harsh realities of war, and expansionist in a reasonably controllable way, they had been the final piece necessary to ensure the enduring strength of the council system for more than a thousand years.

Suddenly, the Turians now found themselves grappling with a species proven every bit their equal in the art of war, and the consequence of their quarrel had begun spilling over into the rest of Council space. While the humans were smart enough not to sanction any attacks by their own privateers against any non-Hierarchy merchant ship, drawing away Turian vessels from their patrols in council space to the front ensured that there was nothing to stop other, less-scrupulous factions from pillaging the worlds and trade of the other Citadel species to their hearts' content. R&D projects, fleet modernization plans, diplomatic, cultural and artistic programs all withered and died away as coffers one filled to bursting from trade and tax revenue dried up in the face of uncontainable, widespread pirate groups. Though the threat from the Terminus had grown more acute however, the real problem was the suddenly reemerging power of the Batarian Hegemony.

The decision to expel Kar'shan from the auspices of Citadel affiliation was not an easy one. Centuries of trade and cultural exchange had made the Batarian way of life seem, if not moral, than at least an unfortunate reality of a galaxy that was wanted cheap goods and was willing to ignore evils it did not have to see. However, as always happens with slave-owning societies, the wealth and power had become concentrated in the hands of a small group of aristocrats, with the vast majority of the Batarian populous to wallow in impotent poverty and no hope of changing their circumstance. And though social and pseudo-religious impetuous had allowed this situation to carry on, the STG had caught wind of a small but accelerating movement which had begun to grow with the stated goal of gradual manumission and reforms to the caste system. Seeing this as their chance, the Council, after nearly 500 years of tolerating their associate membership, at last exiled the Batarians from their place in galactic society, convinced that robbing them of the export base needed to maintain the profitability of a slave-economy would give the burgeoning abolition movement the political drive needed to at last force the Batarians to abandon the reviled practice. And for a while, intelligence from the closed borders of the Hegemony delivered weekly reports of riots, protests, and even small-scale insurrection seemed to vindicate the wisdom of their decision. Then the humans entered the picture.

Contact was formally made between the two powers roughly a decade after the start of the war. At first, the Batarians were groaning at the thought of another militaristic species with a distaste for slavers and a war-machine/society capable of battling the Turians. However, when it became clear that the Alliance, though no fans of their ways, was at least too preoccupied to make an issue of it, their hearts practically lept into their throats at the thought. With an entire economy dedicated to making ships, weapons, and military equipment, the Alliance had the one resource Kar'shan valued even more than slaves: paying customers. And in exchange for a few small concessions it didn't really care about (humans were never easy to get and fought too hard anyway, so it was little loss to ban them being used as slaves), the Batarians found themselves profiting from forced labor as never before, with cheap consumer goods flowing into the Alliance, and money and high-end human weapons bought at throw-away prices flowing back.

It was the second issue that concerned the Council of Matriarchs most. The victims of slaver attacks, though they could happen to anyone anywhere, followed a kind of overall, logical trend. The humans and turians were too powerful and individuals of each species were both too well-trained in combat. The Quarians were too few in number and required too much upkeep to maintain. The Krogans were, well..._fucking __**Krogans**_. And other species like the Volus or Hanar were usually unsuitable for a variety of reasons. So, aside from random minor species throughout the Terminus, this left only two real options from amongst the council species for slavers to turn a profit (other than low-caste Batarians): Salarians and Asari. Relatively few of either species had combat training, and their vast proliferation throughout Council Space, once shielded by the might of the (primarily) Turian Navy, now merely made them targets, with a number of high-density, poorly defended population centers, as well as popular trade routes, within striking distance of pirate dens and slaver bases. And these privateers, usually sponsored by upper-caste Hegemony interests, were increasingly equipped with high-quality ship and weapons tech acquired in trade from their business dealings with the Alliance. As a result, the Asari and Salarian populations of the Hegemony were exploding, and there was growing talk amongst factions within their government to emancipate all Batarians of slave status and create a permanent underclass composed of the alien slaves bought and bred within Batarian space.

Glancing slightly to her right, Tevos noted the pinging of her holographic terminal, indicating an incoming message from yet another reminder of her nation's gradual fall from grace. After a time of accelerating criminal activity and the increasing number of Asari and Salarian slaves with the Hegemony, the Republics and the Union could no longer ignore the issue. However, where once they might have brought the Batarians to issue demands of emancipation of rehabilitation into Council space, they now found themselves dealing with yet another humiliation: requesting terms for new laws to protect their slaves from excessively harsh treatment at the hands of their new Hegemony masters, and asking what it would take to reign in the actions of some of their state-sponsored brigands. And, just to twist the knife, she now found herself at the beck and call of one of the less-commendable examples of her own species. Giving a long-suffering sigh, she at last activated the communicator upon setting her face into an unreadable diplomatic mask.

"Hello Aria."

The warlord queen's holographic visage merely revealed the feared pirate lounging in a relaxed position, her lips bearing that insufferably satisfied smirk, reveling in the position she found herself in.

"Hello yourself _Councilor_."

The word was drawled out in a lazy fashion, giving the ancient Matriarch the desired impression of sarcastic disinterest. Ignoring the quip, Tevos merely pressed on.

"Has the representative of the Hegemony Assembly of Lords departed for the Citadel?"

Aria raised a bit of an eyebrow at the exasperation hidden with Tevos' tone. Clearly, the situation had begun to take its toll.

"That depends. Have my ships been granted the clearance they requested a week ago? By all accounts they are still being held by the same idiot passing for a customs officer who held them up after they first exited the relay into the Utral system."

There were no words to describe how much Tevos hated this. Forced to bow to the whim of this dictator, allowing a convoy of freighters carrying what was undoubtedly dangerous contraband to roam freely into Asari territory. There was no alternative though, she needed Aria, and Aria never did anything without a price.

"I'll contact the office the moment we're finished here and give the freighters authorization to pass freely to their destination. They will be harassed no further."

Aria nodded slightly at this. As a woman used to getting her way, there was no feeling of elation, merely a tacit acknowledgment of this continued status quo.

"Very good. I received word from Ambassador Balak. They just finished departing the docking ports, and their ship is roughly 3 days travel from the Citadel."

Ugh...Balak. There was a name that none of the Council relished. A former member of the Batarian Navy turned terrorist following the expulsion of the Hegemony, he turned "legitimate" shortly following first contact with the Systems Alliance and the subsequent stabilization of Batarian society, leveraging his reputation as a "war hero" for personal advancement. He gained a bit of notoriety these days, both as an unusually fast rising star, and as one of the biggest proponents of expanded relations with the humans, even for a people that viewed the arrival of the System Alliance as a practical miracle.

"I suppose he was there prior for a meeting with the human ambassador before hand."

Aria arched an eyebrow at this. Though it was something of an open secret that the Humans and Batarians met regularly on Omega or within Omega's zone of control, that the council would know _when_ it took place was a bit surprising. Undoubtedly the work of the STG or Shadow Broker.

"Perhaps. What of it?"

Though Tevos on the surface appeared vaguely calm, her fists were tightening slightly underneath the table. Information on the dealings of other nations with the humans was extremely limited, given their initial development of the tachyon-based FTL communication network separate from the Council's old mass effect based extranet system as well as their tendency to not let anyone from the council within their territory.

"Let's cut to the chase Aria. Name your price and give us something we can use."

Aria was a bit surprised at the forwardness, but this was abated quickly. She knew better than most how tenuous the situation for the Council was going, what with the Turians leaving everyone to their own devices and other members being borderline useless without their thousand year old muscle to flex.

"Tevos, neither the Humans nor the Batarians are stupid enough to let slip anything to me I might be willing to sell to anyone. And even if they were you and I both know either of them have more than enough to outbid you 3 times over for me to keep it quiet. Face facts, your buying power just isn't what it use to be. Now if you're done with this foolishness, I have better things to do. Grant the clearance and you can have your meeting. Signing off."

As the apparition of Aria T'Loak disintegrated before, Tevos made to open a channel to the customs office of the Utral System, not for the first wondering what might have been had their first attempt at diplomacy following the Shanxi attack not been delayed by a drive core malfunction.

**Three days later...**

Esheel was not having a good day, though it might be said that he hadn't had anything approaching a truly good day since he so foolishly agreed to take this position after Valern had passed on to revisit the wheel of life. Though Esheel was not notable in his own religiosity, his old mentor had reclaimed a bit of it in his final years and ever since his death at the unusually lengthy age of 45, Esheel still liked to think he had found his way back to this world in some new form. A fate he now envied, since it left him with the task of carrying on his work as the Councilor of the Salarian Union during an era of increasing irrelevancy for their once mighty civilization. Today, this responsibility meant meeting with the loathsome, four-eyed devil to discuss the terms of a new agreement between the Citadel Council and the Hegemony, the first such agreement in more than half a century.

But it was the state of things. The turians no longer had any concerns regarding the batarians, seeing as how they were not the target of their efforts, and these days the Hierarchy's councilor rarely bothered to even show his face at council meeting unless it involved the System Alliance or Spectre deployments in some tangential fashion. Without the might of their fleets standing behind them, they were forced to deal with the Hegemony on their own, a force who was quickly becoming too much for them to handle.

Despite the Treaty of Firaxen making the Salarians and Asari theoretical leading military powers second only to the Hierarchy, it was an advantage they had never chosen to capitalize on. Though possessing more dreadnoughts than any other people aside of the Turian military, they had never expanded their fleets to levels matched by their economies. The Batarians, despite the limits placed upon them during their tenure on the citadel, had never possessed any such qualms, and had expanded every part of their forces as much as possible, with the notable exception of exceeding the dreadnought limit, the one breech of etiquette the Council would not tolerate under any circumstance. Thus, the Batarians had always been in possession of a far more vast conventional fleet, to the Asari and Salarians smaller but more cutting edge naval forces.

Even this advantage had been largely negated as well. While increasing trade deficits and plummeting GDP's for the Union and Republics stunted their research, modernization, and military expansion efforts, the Batarians were had built a sizable fleet armed with cutting edge technology purchased from their human trade partners. As respected as the natives of Surkesh were for their inventive prowess and as revered as the people of Thessia were for their intellectual gifts and culture, R&D programs carried considerable cost, cost that could no longer be suffered by either people. Whereas the Humans and Turians, driven further and further every day into their arms race and war efforts to search for any advantage over their rivals, were producing unprecedented breakthroughs every other day in the fields of ship design, propulsion, weapons, materials science, energy production, telecommunications, computer science, even medicine, leaving their stagnant and at-peace competitors in the dust as they went. And the humans were practically giving away all but the absolute knife-edge of these advancements to maintain good relations with their batarian neighbors.

The Humans. Somehow, it always came back to them. Valern was hardly alone in his wish to go back in time and end this war before it started. Who knows how much things might have been different if humans had been peacefully integrated into Council society, rather than flung into war with the mightiest nation in the known galaxy. Perhaps, things might have been improved if the other two council species had stood beside them against the aggression of the Hierarchy. Forced to stand alone, however, they had slowly begun turning the outcast elements of the galaxy into forces to be reckoned with. The Hegemony, Omega, the Terminus Coalition, there were even rumors that the Quarians had made first contact with them. After the Turians more or less locked down the borders of their space 40 years ago, the Migrant fleet had found itself forced to take the long way around, trying to avoid the overly aggressive sons of Palaven and pirates of the Terminus. If words were to believed, however, it was being said their somewhat-illegal knowledge of the relay network had recently brought them within the outskirts of the System Alliance borders, and discussions for trade and pilgrimage rights were going quite smoothly. At this rate, it would be the exiles of the galaxy who would would stand as its rulers before too long.

But these were musings for another time. Ambassador Balak would be here within hours, and they had a great deal to discuss. Despite the considerable number of fires the STG had to deal with these days, including a barely successful mission to modify the genophage to ensure its continued effectiveness, they still managed to get bits and pieces of information from the workings of the Hegemony now and again, particularly the capture of a number of Salarian females, currently being forced to help the Batarians breed increasing numbers of slaves for the Hegemony's growing economy, their famed eidetic memories being used against their progeny to imprint themselves upon their Batarian masters. With no way of getting them back and no means of forcing them to change their ways, the best Esheel and his counterpart could hope to achieve was get a guarantee of good treatment for the Batarians new found..._merchandise. _Swallowing the bile that had built within him, the Councilor of the Union stood from his desk and went to greet the esteemed representative of the Batarian Hegemony.

**H.S.S. Gintaur'l...**

"Ambassador, we have entered into the Citadel's gravity well. Estimated docking time, 1 hour."

The sound of the ship's captain at last roused Balak from his post-coital rest. Reluctantly raising himself from the comfort of his bed frame, he stretched his arms lazily over his head, his four eyes blinking wearily at the coming day. A soft voice from the left of his bed, however, fully roused him to the world.

"Your robe my lord."

Casting a glance, he located the source of the voice. Next to him, as per usual, was Alita. Naked, save for the jeweled collar around her neck (a decorative piece, since her actual control device was buried within her nervous system), her indigo skin still glistened with the sweat and fluids of their earlier copulations. Her gaze remained reverently downcast and demure and she stood at rigid attention, holding up her master's morning garment in her hands before him. Sparing a small smile at the sight of his lovely Asari slave, Balak rose from his bed, opened his arms, and allowed the girl to drape the garment around his nude form.

"Draw me a bath pet, then you may have some breakfast for yourself. Be quick though, you must be dressed and ready to accompany me onto the station within the hour."

After completing her task, the Asari maiden scurried off, eager to fulfill her master's will. Balak watched her go, his eyes taking in every inch of her luscious form, down to the brand on the back of her thigh that all servants of his household carried. She had been in his service for only about 5 years, but he had quickly grown fond of the sweet little thing, even granting her the right of a name while the other chattel of his estate merely were referred to by numbers. A little over a century old, several years of servitude and psychological conditioning had rendered her as docile as one of those earth animals...dogs or something, and he expected she would quite ably serve him and many future generations of his family.

Craning his neck backwards to work the kinks out he sat for a moment at his desk. Plucking a sidrak from the bowl of fruit next to him, he swiveled his chair back and surveyed his quarters a moment. A fair bit of extravagance had gone into its design, no expense to be spared for the soldier turned diplomat, his living space resembling something more from a Karshan plantation estate rather than your normal ship quarters. Quite a step up from his cramped bed aboard a stolen frigate during his brief time as a guerrilla fighter for the Hegemony cause against the Council.

"The bath is ready my lord."

Eying the girl out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he rose from his chair. Walking over towards the bathing area, he stopped in front of Alita for a brief moment, placing a finger under her chin and raising it up. Her eyes gazed upon him with that mixture of terror and reverence that all slaves possessed after being tamed by Batarian training methods, and he spared her a small smile before placing his hand gently on the side of her cheek. Gasping with pleasure, her eyes glazed over as she leaned into his touch, grateful for any and all positive reinforcement that came from her imprinted master. Balak was quite pleased. Unlike most others, he was not a a particularly firm believer in the old-style methods employed by the Batarians. Cruelty had its place, certainly, but a bit of hope and tenderness every now and again was far more effective at building a slave's psychological dependence on their owners than any amount of time with the lash or control device could hope for.

"Get yourself something to eat Alita, but be quick. I expect you to be dressed and waiting by me with a towel in 20 minutes."

Nodding happily, the girl exited the bathing area, leaving her master to his own devices. Balak eased himself into the heated water, exhaling slightly, reflecting on the good fortune he had found for himself. He had been born during what seemed to be the twilight years of his people's proud civilization. The populace had begun to grow restless with the old ways, the Council's self-righteous grumbling growing louder and louder, all culminating in their expulsion from Citadel membership. Himself a captain of the frigate **Karhsan's Pride** at the time, he had decided to strike out on his own. His family, though not particularly well-off, had enough to live somewhat comfortably as farmers on the colony of Erszbat, giving him the freedom to take his loyal crew on an unsanctioned rampage throughout the edges of Council space. 20 years later, when first contact with the humans was made, he decided the time for a legitimate resurgence had arrived. Taking advantage of his reputation as something of a marauding folk hero, combined with his previous record of exemplary military service and the considerable fortune he had made during his time as a plunderer, he got himself a posting in the leadership of his family's home colony. Within 10 years, he had risen to the position of Ambassador, and his family had become one of the richest within the Hegemony, with a plantation-estate (incorporating both agricultural and industrial zones) that covered nearly all of the landmass of Erszbat's largest continent, and a veritable army of slave laborers to work it. His work as ambassador though left him little time for the day-to-day workings of the estate or serving as a member of the Assembly of Lords, so he allowed his father to take on those positions for himself, a nice little retirement hobby for his twilight years.

And through it all, Balak never forgot the reason for this turn of fate. If ever there was a gift from the gods to the Batarian people, it was making contact with the humans. A nation of warriors, they first seemed a natural enemy due to the vast gulf between cultures. However, there was one trait, either social or biological he could never decide, that the humans possessed which overrode any and all other considerations: belief in necessity. The humans, when called to it, were pragmatists of the highest order. In all the time they had traded with the humans, they had not once uttered a word of protest or support for abolition, merely issuing the demand that humans not be used for slaves. A demand they were all to happy to acquiesce to. In Balak, and indeed a large majority of the Batarian's view, the humans were not a people meant for slavery. While not quite reaching the genteel refinement of his own civilization, he knew that humans, like the Batarians, were conquerors, meant to command rather than obey, and would chaff under any attempts at ownership.

Truly, the only part about dealing with the humans which Balak disliked was traveling without a small cadre of slaves. But it was only fair. Though the humans never spoke up about the issue of forced labor, it was clear that they were visibly disturbed by the sight of batarians interacting with their property. The first time Balak saw this (during his first meeting with Ambassador Munro several years after the first trade agreements) however, he was more surprised by their silence on the matter. When he pressed the ambassador to explain this phenomena, Munro's reply further surprised him.

_"I might be inclined to speak up on the matter sir, except for the fact that I am wearing a suit that bears the words 'Made in the Hegemony' upon it, and I am concerned that such an action might cause me to choke on my own hypocrisy."_

After this, Balak, though reluctantly, petitioned the diplomatic corps that, in effort to show a bit of grace, that they might make it a requirement that representatives not permit slaves to be present when meeting human diplomats and officials. A sizable inconvenience, but a bit of manners never hurt in maintaining good relations with the people who were single-handedly propelling the Hegemony to unprecedented heights of economic and military might. Today though, there was no meeting with the Humans. This was instead a meeting with those who had cast his people out, and he had no compunctions against parading around his trophy slave, a small reminder that his kind were no longer beholden to the whims of the Council.

Speak of the devil, his little Alita had returned, dressed in the revealing two-piece which he allowed her to wear for when she accompanied him on official functions. She stood dutifully by him, holding up a towel in preparation for his emergence from the water. Balak sighed in contentment, it was good to be the king.

_A/N: I want to make something very clear. I am I no way trying to justify the actions of Balak or the Batarian Hegemony. There is no justification, moral or practical, for the practice and institution of slavery. It is a wickedness of the highest order that I condemn with all I have. These vignettes were written from the perspective of each of the individuals they concern, and the views expressed by Balak, and by extension the Hegemony, towards slavery are not my own. My purpose in writing Balak's POV section was to highlight the normality of this practice in the eyes of the Batarian people and provide a glimpse into their mindset. Much as it was in the Southern United States for more than a century, the social and cultural forces that allowed the practice to linger on as long as it did, even in the face of the high-minded ideals of the revolution, blinded the Southern people to the evil and cruelty they were guilty of. So it is with the Batarians. They have lived with it so long that the evil they are committing seems "normal" and "right." My point is not to try and make the Batarian way of life seem in any way acceptable, only to emphasize the gulf in thinking that exists between them and the rest of galactic society who has come to correctly view the practice as a horrific crime against sapient intelligence, and how both sides cope with the gulf. The sad thing is, Balak might be considered something of a Batarian "liberal", in that he opposes excessive cruelty and is in favor of ending slavery for his own people in favor of exclusively enslaving aliens._


	7. Interludes II

A/N: Hello all. I hate to do this, since I issued a promise that my next update would be part of the main plot. However, my last entry proved to be my most "controversial" yet, and a number of people thought my portrayal of the deteriorating situation that the Asari and Salarians were currently facing was unrealistic. In order to address these concerns and justify the picture I have painted, I am resorting to a new entry employing a story-telling method I'm usually not a fan of: a sorta-chapter built around a meeting. Don't get me wrong, things like self-written codex entries and intelligence briefs can be interesting if done right, but I kind of doubted my ability to pull it off, but I couldn't think of a better way to address the concerns brought forth by a number of reviewers. So, I hope you enjoy it, sorry for my temporary bout of creative laziness.

_Interludes II: The Shape of Things_

_**It is the province of knowledge to speak and it is the privilege of wisdom to listen**__**.**_

**Oliver Wendell Holmes**

**Alpha Centauri, Cronus Station, 3****rd**** Lagrange Point between planets Sun Wukong and ****Xuanzang**

The station was not a particularly impressive one. It was built that way on purpose. A simple O'Neil Cylinder, no larger than 1.3 km in length, its official purpose was monitoring colonial development within the Alpha Centauri system. In truth, it served a far more elaborate purpose. Housing a series of more than two dozen Quantum Entanglement communicators, it served as one of 4 meeting hubs for Alliance Intelligence officials across human controlled space. A darkened room stood at the center of the station, with a dais in the middle upon which stood one of the small number of the station's occupants. Surrounding him, arranged like a tribunal, sat the holographic visage of 13 Alliance officers, the heads of their respective agencies within the service. Opening turning to the report in front of him, and activating the holographic projector at the center of the room, the agent upon the dais began his presentation.

"Well met fellow members of the Alliance Ministry of Intelligence. Preceding this meeting, each of you should have received a detailed hard copy of the most recent analysis upon which this meeting is based. However, as this report is roughly 1,271 pages in length and exists only in physical form for security reasons, it was decided that prior to its issuing a briefer outline would be presented to you for the sake of brevity.

The current war with the Turian Hierarchy is a subject each of you is no doubt well-versed in, through countless hours of theoretical exercises and actual field experience. However, just as important in our long-term considerations is the effect this conflict is having against the heretofore neutral powers that also play a tertiary role in the conflict. 20 years of piecing together data, either through Terminus informants, Shadow Broker agents, and a small handful of inside informants has given us the pieces needed to out together a general picture of the current state of galactic politics. The results are, to say the least, surprising, none more so than the current state of two of the supposed leading powers of the galaxy: the Asari Republics and the Salarian Union.

Great skepticism, within and without the intelligence community, has been expressed that the other two Council races, lauded for so many centuries as incomparably powerful forces, would find themselves in such dire circumstances, particularly the increasingly severe problems they face in terms of pirate and slaver assaults on trade convoys and even some border worlds. However, the analysis presented, though some issues it raises remain unanswered, have proven to be reliably accurate, and we believe we have discovered some of the reason why.

The Council system has existed, more or less, for roughly 2,600 years by Solar Year standards, founded by the first known sapient species to achieve interstellar travel technology: the Asari and Salarians. Following this discovery, the two species maintained their authority over galactic affairs, rather than through military strength, through technological and cultural domination. Though other members brought to the Citadel generally achieved a level of development roughly equal to the two, the Council leaders always maintained a steady gap in terms of technical quality and cultural proliferation. Military power, while it was developed to a degree, was never established as a major tier of their domination over the developed system, since their advantage in "soft-power", i.e. technological, cultural, and economic capability, compensated for any gaps in so-called "hard-power", i.e. military strength.

The first major challenge to this state of affairs was first contact with the Rachni, an aggressively expansionist (if council records are to be believed) species of insectoids. This also represented what might have been the first steps of what could have become a concerted effort to develop substantial military power, but the decision to instead turn to the uplifted Krogan led to a reassertion of the status quo, with the Asari and Salarians providing logistical and technical support to the majority-Krogan military force that eventually drove the Rachni to extinction. A handful of steps towards _some _form of militarization efforts in the build-up to the Krogan Rebellions, culminating in the creation of the Spectres (the Council's private army of elite agents), proved insufficient for forming a substantial base for fighting an effective conventional war, and the discovery of the Turian Hierarchy once again provided the impetuous to return to the old system now that a slightly more controllable military force could form the basis of Council authority. This return to the old "roles" as it were (see Asari cultural and diplomatic strength, Salarian intellectual and espionage capability), with the Turian Hierarchy playing the role of effective Council military as the final leg of the system they had come to rely on.

It has been said of the Council that the power of the established system was built on the idea that no one Council species could defy the others. This, however, has incorrectly been correlated to mean that the effective military power of the Republics and the Union is equal to, or exceeds, that of the Hierarchy. It would, in fact, be more accurate to say that the widespread proliferation of Asari and Salarian territory, combined with their general technological and espionage capabilities, had rendered them unconquerable by the Turians, as no effective military force could hope to effectively occupy all of such a vast territory and any attempt to do so would leave the Hierarchy permanently crippled. Hence, the Council system was based on less an organization of equals, and more upon a mutually assured destruction that such a conflict would bring to all of them. Thus, we see that the power and authority of the Asari and Salarians was actually built upon three-tiers: reputation, technology, and trade, backed by the military might of the Turians.

The first tier, reputation, is one of the most obviously visible and subtly useful. The skilled and powerful Asari huntresses, the sly and effective Salarian STG. Effective though such groups are however, in practice, as shown time and time again, are a poor conventional military force. The Asari military lacks any form of of centralized leadership, a consequence of a complete and total e-democracy, with Matriarchs of each star cluster maintaining de-facto, but unofficial, control over defense flotillas and local militia forces. However, the individual quality of Asari soldiers has led many to question the information received about the rapidly expanding Asari slave population, given that each Asari is a natural biotic. However, the fact of the matter is, only a relative handful actually have received the necessary training to possess combat effective biotic skills. Just as time and effort are required to learn to shoot a gun, wield a sword, or learn martial arts, it is the same with biotic ability. At this time, given the best information we have concerning Asari militia sizes and the number of mercenary groups employing majority Asari, we would estimate that roughly between 8-12% of the population of the natives of Thessia have combat-level biotics, leaving those without highly valued targets for Batarian slavers.

The Salarian Union suffers from a similar set of problems. While the effectiveness of the Salarian special forces and intelligence services, collectively known as the Special Tasks Group, is beyond question, it is ineffective as a primary arm of a conventional force. The actual Salarian naval and land forces, while a dedicated and professional army, remains minimal, and the STG finds itself stretched to near-breaking point in recent times, forced to split their attention between the goings-on of the war, various factions within the Terminus, the Hegemony, and any number of other small fires we know nothing about. This, combined with their increasingly ineffective naval forces, renders them just as vulnerable as the Asari to the rapid increase in Batarian slaver efforts. The reputation they and the Asari had cultivated prior to this time worked in concert with the Turian military to facilitate their populations' excessive proliferation throughout the known galaxy, far exceeding the ability of their own forces to protect, relying largely on the general principle that "an attack on one is an attack on all" to shield themselves. Without Turian military power to back them up, this reputation is no longer enough.

The other two tiers: technology and trade, have suffered substantial set-backs in recent times as well. The forces currently arrayed against the Alliance military, while substantial, do not currently represent the totality of the Turian military. Between their commitments to the Council and their efforts to maintain their authority over their clients, it is estimated that the portion of the Hierarchy military dedicated to combating the Alliance represents between 35%-40% of their combined armed forces. However, this reduction in available naval power has forced the Turians to prioritize their commitments, pulling away from most of their efforts in assisting their Council allies to defending their own convoys from Terminus pirates and Alliance privateers. This pullback has accounted for an estimated 20% decline in Salarian and Asari trade revenues, triggering a massive recession in both nations, and hampering efforts to expand their patrol fleets to compensate for the lack of Hierarchy protection.

These economic problems have been made all the more acute by an increasing gap between them and the galactic standard of technological development. In the past, both species were unquestioned leaders in the field of Mass Effect-based technology, with a majority of monopolies and bleeding-edge patents held by conglomerates dominated by Asari and Salarian interests. The war between the Alliance and the Hierarchy, however, have begun to shift a sizable number of industries outside the control of the old-school market system as human and turian military scientists and engineers produce works of technological and scientific achievement with the stated goal of gaining advantage over one another and moving away from dependence on element zero (which is both extremely rare and highly dangerous to collect, two qualities that make it undesirable for a war economy to depend on). As a result of their efforts, ancient conglomerates of the past have begun to cede their superiority to Volus, a number of Terminus species, and (surprisingly) Batarian companies. While the Turians in modern times almost exclusively sell to themselves and our civilization is cut-off from affiliation within the "legitimate" galactic market, the Volus profit heavily from declassified Turian military developments. Likewise the Batarians, with their own standard of technology raised substantially through trade and scientific cooperation treaties with the Alliance, and the galactic economy slowly being opened back up to them as a precondition to their willingness to negotiate, have become once again major players in the economy of Citadel space, leaving the old element-zero exclusive economies of the Republics and the Unions to experience a contraction of their gross domestic product. The GDP contraction, in turn, has hampered the efforts of the Asari and Salarian people's to move away from their older technological base to embrace a newer one, further hampering modernization and expansion of their armed forces to defend their citizens and prevent a further increase in their trade deficits.

It should be stated, however, that this is not to say that they are on the verge of collapse, as some have speculated. Despite the recession, their economies remain the two largest in Citadel Space, and their combined military force numerically exceeds that of their nearest rival, the Batarians, by a substantial margin. I doubt very much that we will see a large Hegemony force setting foot on any part of either species' sovereign territory any time soon. However, given the increasing number of forces aligned against them, the diminishing presence of the Turian navy to patrol the trade lanes, a severe contraction in the available funds allocated to restructuring and modernizing their naval forces, and far too much territory under their control for their overstretched military to properly patrol, it can be assumed that, for the immediate future, the trend of increasing piracy and slaver operations will most likely continue to expand steadily, possibly pushing both powers into a full-on economic depression."

Upon completion, one of the seated officers leaned forward to press a button off-projection range. Her seat became illuminated, indicating a request to speak.

"The floor recognizes."

No names spoken. Secrecy was paramount. The faces were likely altered through the projectors as well.

"If the situation has deteriorated so far, why have the Asari and Salarians not taken sides in the conflict yet? By all accounts, the longer this goes on, their decline may become irreversible."

Nodding slightly, the man in the center altered the projection screen, displaying the currently known borders of Republic and Union space, as well as trade routes and population information.

"The Asari have been long held back by a cultural consequence of their unique biology. Their thousand year life-spans have lead to a societal inclination to view the universe and galactic affairs from a perspective of centuries. In essence, the rapidly altering situation has left them unable to keep up. It is further a consequence of their unique system of government. No centralized leadership, beyond their official representative to the Council, leaves the overall policy shaping decisions to the extranet forums where the majority of political decisions are made. This e-democracy has essentially produced a citizenry who are unwilling to fight **any** non-defensive war, a situation we have cultivated with our official policy of neither attacking nor sanctioning attacks by privateers against any Asari interests.

The Salarians, on the other hand, have not yet interfered due to a cultural impetuous invented by their military doctrine. As excessive dependence on their espionage apparatus over their conventional military has led to an unwillingness to enter into actions lacking what they define as "sufficient" data. Data which they have been unable to acquire due to our closed borders and lack of extranet access. Combined with the STG being stretched to near-breaking in recent years has paralyzed their decision-making apparatus.

Most importantly, however, the Council is dedicated to maintaining its, you could call it, "moral authority." The war between the humans and the turians, though the galaxy has a rather complicated view on how its been carried out, largely recognizes its origins lay in turian aggression. The Council interceding on behalf of the turians would undermine its claims to authority in the faces of the increasingly dissatisfied associate species. On the opposite coin, attempts to intercede on behalf of humanity would lead to a complete withdrawal of turian support, possibly permanently, with no guarantees that they could ever recover from it. So, for the time being, the Council has no choice but to maintain their neutrality."

The officer nods her head, content with the given explanation. Glancing about, the man upon the dais proceeds.

"If there are no further questions, this briefing is concluded. Victoria ad terram."

The projections nodded in unison.

"Victoria ad terram."

The holographic visages vanished. The dais lights died away and the agent returned to the darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect. Enjoy!

**Chapter 6: The Many Shades of Truth**

_What is history, but a fable agreed upon?_

_**-Napoleon Bonaparte**_

In the recorded history of the known universe, their stood a small handful of places that exemplified the totality of an era's vices and virtues. The civilizations of Earth were rife with them: Rome, Beijing, New York, etc., but as a model of the galaxy in a bottle, no city upon any world could compare to the wonder that was Nos Astra, capital city of the independent world of Illium. A shimmering gem of culture and wealth, the metropolitan skyline stretched across the surface of an entire continent, the sight of glittering spires and glamorous monuments to decadent excess ending upon sight of a vast, peaceful ocean, a paradise world carefully maintained by one of the most advanced weather regulation systems anywhere, Council space or otherwise. It was true idol to the intellectual and artistic gifts of the Asari species, and a seemingly grandiose validation of the inhabitants' decision to break away from Asari territory and establish their own social mores. It was of course, these social mores that presented the alternate side of the coin.

Like most worlds within or near the Terminus, the quest for prosperity had led to a gradual erosion of many of the traditional laws and regulations that governed much of what might be called civilized space. Border worlds like Illium, themselves straddling that most dangerous of tightropes between mainstream society and Terminus notoriety, went to great lengths to present a pleasant facade to the galaxy. Offering themselves as humble servants of those seeking the independence of supreme lalissez-faire capitalist ideal, Illium maintained its decorum for centuries despite indulging in practices few in proper Asari society would ever entertain, much less condone.

In more recent times, however, as what few customs and regulations Illium had bothered to maintain gradually eroded, much of the facade had begun to disappear. In an effort to be more accommodating to the newly-cash flushed Batarians, ancient restrictions on non-compensation labor vanished as local business leaders and power brokers rushed to recognize Hegemony sapient-property rights. The indentured servitude market, once the vaguely respectable method of voluntary forced-labor, had gone bust as Batarian traders moved in, along with pirates and freelancers of varying repute. Flesh was traded openly in the public market, large cages containing members of species from all across council and terminus space standing next to kiosks for unlicensed weapons and dangerous materials from half the galaxy. Prices for doe-eyed Asari maidens, stoic low-caste Batarians, and largely unreadable Untorri being shouted along side merchants yelling the current market-price for pre-fab housing facilities and dangerously modified weapons to be sold to future colonials.

Nothing that Garrus hadn't seen before however. While the sight before him stirred up more than it's share of disgust, he nevertheless had a job to do, and campaigning to end the slave trade was not it. Having landed on Nos Astra a day ago in an unmarked shuttle, he had managed to dodge most of the usual customs checks with a discrete call to the head of the docking station and a verification of his Spectre credentials before bedding down for the evening at a local apartment complex on permanent lease to Hierarchy Intelligence (on the books as Tobin Zint of the Volus Protectorate). From there he connected to his superiors back on Palaven and learned that his local contact would be a local information broker.

She was apparently a new source, an Asari who was once employed on Omega for a time after giving up her career in academia, so there wasn't much to go on other than she was supposedly the daughter of some high-up Matriarch back on Thessia. Not much to go on, but she was said to be one of the better information brokers on this planet in spite of her relative youth. The meeting had been scheduled the following evening, in a private lounge at the nightclub Eternity, so all the usual preparations had to be made: surveillance jammers, concealed weapons, all the usual tricks for keeping one alive, though given that she was an Asari information broker, he wouldn't have minded one of those biotic inhibitors he had heard rumors about the Batarians inventing.

In the end, however, there was nothing that could prepare him for the most interminable threat to all intelligence work: waiting. The broker, having been not quite forthcoming with the timing specifics of her arrival, had thus far left Garrus to stew in a corner of the club awaiting her arrival. Unwilling to drink on the job, he merely sat idly sipping a glass of dextro-friendly water, listening to inane chatter and news report on one of the nearby screens.

Apparently, the Turian navy had at last managed to drive the Alliance out of the Mjolnir System after nearly 8 months of fighting over who would control the element-zero-rich debris field surrounding the neutron star. A massive victory indeed...if you ignored the fact that the system had, over the past 20 years, changed hands no less than 6 times. Garrus knew full well why they announced only the seizure of the system, and not of any stock piles or mining facilities. At this point, neither side even bothered to build any kind of infrastructure there, they simply held it in an effort to deny it to their enemy. A wasteful kind of war, but no one could afford to let anyone get the upper-hand in the element zero market.

Though the list of things over the past half century which relied on the mass effect had shrunk considerably, there were still a sizable number of essential pieces of military hardware that ran off the stuff. Energy weapons had been miniaturized down somewhat, but they still had to be mounted on heavy-weapons platforms like battle mechs and tanks and would likely never shrink further due to their ridiculous power requirements. As a result, the small arms weapons technology of both sides remained stubbornly dependent on element zero, not to mention mass-accelerator weapons for war vessels and the countless drive-cores that had to be built for any ship that hoped to scurry about at FTL speeds. So, for better or worst (almost certainly worst), pointless battles would be continue to be fought all along the "front" for no reason other than to make sure the other guy didn't get it. This was what they had been reduced to. A war of meaningless victories.

At last, Garrus was roused from his thoughts by the approach of another. She was a young Asari, blue-skinned, wearing a dark-gray pant-suit and the unmistakable swagger of someone who knew more than the common sapient. No doubt his contact, a thought validated by her approach and opening words.

"Let's take this somewhere more discrete Spectre."

Gesturing towards a small VIP lounge in the corner, the maiden turned heel, the Spectre rising gracefully to follow. Taking a seat opposite the Turian,the information broker pressed a concealed button underneath the table, shutting the room off from the remainder of the club. Just the two of them.

"Little Wing I presume."

Nodding slightly, the azure young woman reached into one of her suit pockets and pulled out a small, rectangular object.

"Got it in one Spectre. Before we continue however, let us ensure we are who we say we are."

Suddenly wary, Garrus eyed the device she was holding carefully. It didn't look particularly threatening. A small display near the top, a curved spike was placed conspicuously in the center with a small hole at its base.

"What is this? I don't recall being informed of any kind of 'verification'."

Smiling slightly, the broker waved her hand dismissively.

"Relax. It's just a spectrometer. I couldn't bring in anything more advanced than this lest we set off an alarm from the higher power requirements. This will tell us we are the species we claim to be."

Garrus merely gave a hard look.

"Are you serious?"

Shrugging slightly, she placed the device on the table.

"Rumors abound every day: new cosmetic techniques, optical tricks, hell even a modified version of the 'shroud' that can actually make you look like a completely different individual. However, while they might have ways to trick cursory biometric scans, I'm yet to meet anyone who could fake blood from the source. It's your choice, but we aren't proceeding forward until you give me a sample to check."

Garrus was more than a little conflicted. She was a new contact, the only thing they knew about her was her codename, she could be working for literally any goal. However, he had a job to do, and for better or worst, he needed her help. A few minutes of contemplation passed before his thoughts were arbitrarily interrupted.

"Oh for fuck sake, I'll go first!"

Placing her hand, palm down, underneath the metal tip, she pressed a small button on the side of the machine. The spike suddenly clamped down and up, creating a small hole in her hand which was immediately sealed by a medi-gel spray. The screen flickered on, pulled up the words "Analyzing Sample" and a moment later out popped the word 'Asari,blood type Nu'.

"See? Now unless you think my plot is to kill both of us at absolutely zero profit to myself, stop being an ass and give me a blood sample!"

At last, a reluctant Garrus put forth his hand to give a sample, though with a different reason for his trepidation. Turian skin was notoriously resistant to cuts and abrasions, something which Garrus had been grateful for many times. However, it wasn't really all that more resistant to stabs than any other species' flesh, and due to a higher proportion of cartilage over bone than most others, things that got stabbed in had an unfortunate tendency to get stuck, raising the risk of infection. But, there was no alternative, so Garrus gave his duly required blood sample. The stab was mercifully clean, sliding in and out with no difficulty before sealing it with medi-gel and confirming his species type.

"Not so terrible eh?"

Garrus merely responded with a glare before withdrawing his hand and up righting himself in his chair.

"You have your damned confirmation and have been well-paid. Now give me what I came here for."

"Little Wing" merely leaned forward, resting her head on her hand.

"Ohh...someone's in a hurry. Got somewhere else to be Spectre?"

Expression unchanged.

"Yes that's right, you've got nothing until I share what I know. So, the fact is, you've got nowhere to be until after our little chat. So, I suggest you pleasant up that attitude before I keep your schedule free a while longer."

Garrus' mandibles clicked in annoyance as he clenched and unclenched his talons in a manner no doubt expressing the warring desire in him to wipe that smug look of the Asari information broker across from him. Finally, he managed to rein himself in.

"My...apologies. Please, share with me what you know."

The broker's head did not move, but her lips upturned into a small grin.

"Thaaat's better. Now that we've decided to be civil, we can have ourselves a little conversation."

Leaning back into her chair, the Asari lifted her arm and brought up her omni-tool.

"Just under a month ago, one of your convoys was attacked in the Mentani system during an attempt to discharge their drive cores. About 25 merchant vessels were destroyed or captured, along with their escorts. Normally this wouldn't be anything of particular interest. The cargo was nothing of note, your usual collection of manufactured goods and heavy-metals bound for the inner-core of the Hierarchy. What was of note, however, was their escort. A light cruiser and several Hierarchy frigates should have been more than a match for 16 pirate vessels, but from what I understand they were lead by a miniature frigate with the firepower to match a light cruiser. Only a handful of extra-legal organizations have access to that kind of technology."

Garrus arched a brow at this.

"Cerberus?"

The broker merely shrugged.

"Possibly. There are a handful of others, though I can't think of anyone but a human group that would have the motivation to attack a convoy escort of that strength. The remaining vessels seemed to be freelancer groups though, their weapons were pretty standard fair for run-of-the-mill brigands. There was one other thing too: they took one of the frigates intact. Apparently on the orders of the flagship."

Now that was intriguing. Garrus leaned back for a moment to ponder the situation. Among the routes found on the captured data was the trade route through the Mentani system, a somewhat popular site for core discharge. Included with the navigational maps could have easily been info on the convoy schedules and disposition of escort forces. This could have been what Coriolanus' client was after. The question was why.

"I don't suppose you have anything else to share?"

The Asari gave her smug little grin again before tapping on her omni-tool.

"As a matter of fact I do. As you know, Illium has slightly more lax local laws on, among other things, ship registries. However, while a vessel is not obligated to be officially registered within Illium's zone of control, it is obligated to carry a unique transponder signal for in-system traffic regulation. Several days ago, the transponder signal of the flagship from that little operation was detected entering Illium airspace and has not yet departed."

Suddenly, a nervous air took over the Garrus' portion of the conversation.

"Wait, the only one's who could have detected the transponder signal were the ships in the convoy, and they only transmitted information of the attack to Hierarchy vessels. How could you possibly know...?"

Before he could go on any further, the Asari raised her hand.

"Please Spectre, I wouldn't be a very good information broker if I couldn't get data I shouldn't know. I'd be even worst at it if I shared my methods with clients. For now, it should be enough for you that I know."

Garrus, though still internally reeling somewhat from the realization of a potentially massive security breach, allowed her to continue.

"The vessel, however, was not docked at Nos Astra's official space port. There are, however, several unofficial landing pads throughout the city that could potentially house a ship the size of the one you are looking for. I can forward the data, but I'm afraid the leg-work on this one is up to you."

Nodding slightly, Garrus activated his own omni-tool. A few taps later, he had the locations of several areas around the city that could potentially house the ship he was looking for.

"Thank you for your assistance, the Hierarchy will not forget this."

The Asari merely glanced at him bemusedly.

"Don't read too much into this Spectre. If you had been an agent of the Hegemony or the Alliance, I would have just as readily handed over the information for the same price. Don't think anyone on this world is a friend to your cause, or any cause for that matter other than their own."

Nodding in acknowledgment of this all too self-evident truth, Garrus made his way out the door, before being interrupted once more by a voice behind him.

"Oh and Spectre. Do try to be careful. The death of my clients tends to be bad for repeat business."

And with that fond sentiment, Garrus at last made his way out.

* * *

><p><em>Nos Astra, Ujon District...<em>

Shepard glanced wearily about. She had never been a fan of areas like this. The Ujon District was a relatively recent construction, built as a district primarily for wealthy Batarian immigrants. With a wide variety of palatial Kar'shan-style estates surrounding her in contrast to the normal architecture of the rest of the city, the whole area reeked of 'new-money' who had no idea how to properly spend their rapidly acquired wealth. She wasn't here to critique local architecture though, her 2'o'clock was awaiting her. She glanced on either side of her, appreciative of the company of the two compatriots who now flanked her. On her left was someone from the old days, good old Daiyu Chen. She had joined up with Shepard no questions asked all those years ago, abandoning her promising career as a lieutenant for the Valkyrie's combat engineers to follow her commander. And on her right was a newer friend courtesy of Cerberus: one Jacob Taylor.

He had been quite a lucky break actually. When the Illusive Man granted her a ship, he demanded that she take on at least one of his own agents as an officer aboard her ship. With no other choice, she reluctantly took on Mr. Taylor to fill a duel role as her ship's security chief and master-at-arms, figuring that his background of service in the Alliance might at least make him tolerable to work with. In a twist of good fortune, she found the affable Mr. Taylor to be a loyal and effective officer and the two got on famously. A ex-corsair, he was quite familiar with operating outside the rules, and while dedicated to his work in Cerberus, she could count on him to follow orders, even when not officially sanctioned by the Illusive Man.

The trio's air car at last arrived upon the grounds of their destination. The mansion was quite impressive all things considered. Massive, exquisitely maintained lawns, a beautiful series of gardens visible from the air, an elaborate fountain dominating the front of the building before reaching the entrance way, it was all quite lovely, and quite lost upon the trio who just arrived, longing to conclude their business and be on their way. Upon exiting their vehicle, they made way to the entrance, where they were greeted by a somewhat surprising sight: a Raloi valet. The vaguely avian xeno graciously stood aside and opened the door for them, leading them through to the main lounge area. All about they observed various household staff, mostly Salarians and Asari puttering about with their daily responsibilities, fairly standard fair for a wealthy Batarian household, excepting the fact that all the Asari slaves working throughout the building were dressed in what appeared to be racy French Maid-style uniforms, exposing a great deal of their nubile forms to the 3 guests.

At last they came to a set of double doors, where one of the Asari workers was standing by awaiting their arrival. Upon seeing them, she lowered he head reverently and dropped into a deep curtsey as a way of greeting as the Raloi made good his retreat back to his post at the front door.

"It is my honor to serve you, guests of my Master's house. I am called Jia'll. If there is **anything** I can do to make your stay more pleasant, please do not hesitate to ask. My Master will be joining you in the parlor shortly."

With that, she made an about-face and opened the double doors, allowing the trio to enter before following and offering seats on the ornate chair near the fireplace. Before them was a generous display of various local delicacies as finger-foods and spirits of exceptional quality. Nodding slightly at the girl, Shepard and her companions took their seats, and the Asari slave again curtsied and returned to the door. Taylor then leaned forward to grab a hors d'oeuvre.

"So, he invites us all the way out here to complete the deal, only to keep us waiting when we arrive on time?"

Shepard merely shrugged, choosing to disdain the food a moment as Chen also reached for one of the fruits.

"Comes with the territory Taylor. Batarians are big on protocol, and one of those protocols is making a big show of how busy they are for important guests. Makes us feel all the more important that they were torn away from their 'very' busy schedule just for us. Especially after we got to see how overworked his household staff of bug-eyes and space-elves usually are, makes it all the more an imposition for him."

Chen merely grinned as she devoured a sidrak.

"Always one step ahead Captain?"

Shepard glanced over to her, vaguely amused.

"Only when it counts Chen."

Chen smiled as she finished off the fruit.

"Well, at least the food's good. Too bad we're on the clock, else I'd take a swig from the one of these bottles. I might have to swipe one on our way out."

Taylor smiled across the table.

"Dibs on the vodka."

Shepard's face turned slightly serious for a moment.

"Mr. Taylor, you know full well that I have unending 'dibs' status on all vodkas encountered. I recall us discussing this many times."

Jacob gave a slight laugh at this before raising his hands in defeat.

"As you command Captain."

Their conversation was brought to an abrupt end by the sound of the twin doors opening to reveal their illustrious host, Hanak. Dressed in an immaculate red suit trimmed in gold, he swiftly crossed the room to his guests, who had stood in recognition of his arrivals.

"Ahh, honored guests. Welcome to my home. I trust your journey here was without incident."

Shepard crossed over to meet him, a cool look steeled in her features, and the two grasped wrists by way of greeting.

"A pleasure Hanak. I thank you for your hospitality and the efficiency of your household staff."

Hanak took in turn a pleased look, along with a left head tilt, the usual sign of respect given by Batarians. A lot of money was about to change hands, and with luck there would dealings in the future to consider.

"I am pleased to hear you have enjoyed yourselves, though I see you have not partaken of our local spirits."

Shepard merely waved her hand at this.

"I am afraid today promises to be quite busy. Must keep a clear head and all that."

Hanak nodded slightly. Occasional courtesies had to be forgone once and a while.

"Quite understandable. I do hope, however, that you will not find it improper of me if I have one myself. Will you join me in the private lounge area Captain? I have a personal stock there which I do not share with others, and it will give us a chance to discuss things in seclusion."

Shepard considered for a moment before nodding. She then turned to her compatriots.

"Think you two can handle yourselves for a bit?"

Taylor and Chen glanced at the hors d'oeuvre table before turning back to their CO.

"I'm sure we can manage captain."

With that, the Hanak and Shepard made their way to the upper floor of the estate, Jia'll moving discretely behind them, having been replaced in the parlor by one of her fellows. The two at last came to the private lounge, whereupon Hanak turned to the little slave following them.

"Jia'll, make me the usual, and get some water for my guest."

Jia'll swiftly moved behind the bar area and began to frantically mix her lord's drink, who had turned his attention back to Shepard. Raising his hand to activate his omni-tool, Shepard responded in kind.

"I have made all necessary preparations. The supplies you purchased have been delivered to your vessel, and the second part of your order is awaiting your pick-up at my familial holdings in the T'kon System."

Shepard nodded as she scanned the information.

"I just got confirmation from my vessel of delivery. Thank you for your help, I can more or less guarantee future dealing between your House and my organization."

Oh, how pleasing to hear. This order had been something of a challenge to fill, but the compensation had been well above market price, and Hanak had netted a sizable fortune from this deal. More in the future would be spectacular.

"Excellent. I must say, your group has been a most gratifying client. I apologize my wife was not able to be present to help finalize this deal, especially after the extensive part she played in the negotiations, but she had some business to deal with back on the homeworld."

Shepard merely nodded.

"No trouble at all. This part was simply the leg-work component of our deal. Not everyone had to be here for it."

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by Jia'll who had stepped forward with two glasses, one holding Hanak's dark liquor, the other containing Shepard's water. The two grabbed their glasses, before Hanak tilted his head right, clearly indicating that she was to remove herself from their sight for the moment. Giving a small curtsey, Jia'll moved to the corner of the room, hands folded over her skirt, tensely awaiting the next command from her master, though with downcast eyes signaling deference to the lords of the manor and their guest. Hanak's eyes rested upon Shepard, the top 2 furrowed in an analyzing glance. Shepard's eyes remained resolutely fixed on the dead center between both sets of blood red, no change in her visage as she casually sipped her water.

"Curious..."

Shepard's visage at last altered into a quirked eyebrow.

"What's that?"

Hanak's head nudged in the direction of the quivering form of the azure Asari slave in the corner.

"Most of your kind, though too polite to bring it up, usually give off noticeable signs of discomfort in the presence of owned sentient flesh. You however, appear thoroughly unmoved by the presence of my household staff."

Ah, the rub. Truly, it was a topic that Shepard had no interest in, but she supposed a bit of small talk following a quick shrug wouldn't hurt.

"You are our allies. The Asari are not. They had their time, their chance to capitalize on their power. It has passed. Whatever fate the universe has in store for them now is not my concern. And how your people choose to handle your relations with other species' is equally not my concern."

Tilting his head to the side, Hanak allowed himself a little ghost of a smile.

"Truly? Well now, this is a unexpected pleasantry, one most gratifying to hear."

Gesturing to the outside balcony, the 2 of them turned to go out and appreciate the evening air a moment. Jia'll scurried silently, remaining within earshot to respond to commands, yet out of the way of their sight. Shepard continued to sip her water, somewhat surprised at the change in conversation, though it made a degree of sense. She had little doubt Hanak wanted more, some kind of reassurance that future deals with Cerberus, and perhaps Humanity in general, would remain lucrative for the immediate future.

"You must understand. While Kar'shan is supremely honored to stand with Earth, many of us remain uneasy about humanity to a degree. Your nation's unwavering dedication to eliminating the presence of..._freelancers_ within and near your territory, even though they are no threat to your people, leaves many Batarians somewhat worried about what happens when this war ends and you feel compelled to deal with what you have helped create. That your species' begins to feel some kind of irrational guilt over helping to maintain and expand some of the more..._misunderstood_ aspects of our culture."

Reaching the exterior of the building, the two of them were treated to the sight of the glorious vista that was Nos Astra. All the glittering glory and folly of the universe laid bare before her, Shepard leaned against the rail, staring out into the horizon.

"You need not worry too much Hanak. When this war is over, and Humanity stands victorious over the rotting corpse that was once the Turian Hierarchy, we will allow ourselves the luxury of indulging in one of our greatest gifts: justification. We will sing songs and write histories for the next hundred generations, telling of our glorious battles and terrifying odds. And when we speak of our desperation, the will turn our contact with the Hegemony. How despite our differences of culture and opinion, the common bonds of desperation pulled us together and upwards to heights neither of us could dream. And when our historians recall the billions slain, the colonies burned, and the fear that lurked in the heart of every human man, woman, and child for 50 years, all that we did or allowed to be done as a result will seem reasonable and necessary."

Turning from the skyline, she faced Hanak once more, raising herself up to her full, rather imposing height.

"And regardless of circumstance or self-interest, when my people speak of this conflict, I suspect all that will be remembered of your part is that you stood beside us while the other powers of the galaxy turned away. And I doubt very much that your people's peddling of alien flesh, no matter how unfortunate humankind might find it, will matter much in the face of that."

Hanak looked her up and down, a small grin adorning his face.

"A most pleasant surprise indeed..."

Lifting one hand up, Hanak idly snapped his fingers twice. Jia'll moved quickly, her hands grasping at the bowl of fruit near the balcony entrance. In a show of courtesy, it had been filled prior to Shepard's arrival with native earth fruits. Swiftly mincing over to the head of house and his guest, Jia'll held the bowl of fruit before her, face bowed low, a most profane offering to what might as well have been her gods. Nodding slightly at the hospitality, Shepard made for one of the cherries in the bowl.

"I will admit to a hint of surprise though at seeing a Raloi here. I was under the impression that the Hegemony confined them all to be agricultural and mining laborers in their home system?"

Shrugging, Hanak grabbed a peach from the bowl. Of all the handful of imports anyone could ever get out of the Alliance, this fruit had turned out to be an unexpected delicacy.

"True enough, but the Hegemony always allows for the limited export of at least some members of subject species. Especially if they've got no means of leaving their home system. The Raloi are a rather simple group to keep track of. We make them implant tags in all their young and make sure only authorized ships enter and leave the system. Hell, we don't even need an occupation army. One of the old dreadnaughts from when we still used those things was pulled out of retirement and stationed in-system. They don't comply with our commands, we just shoot a KE round and blow up a city. What do we care? It's not like Batarians are ever going to colonize it, we just need someone to strip-mine the bastard. The one I purchased was quite exorbitant, let me tell you."

Shepard simply spat out the cherry pit in response.

"Seems an odd choice for an investment. Weird looking creatures, kind of like if an emu fucked a quarian . This one a particularly talented singer or something?"

Eyebrow quirk.

"Or maybe some kind of oddly specific fetish of yours...?"

Hanak stopped mid-bite for a moment, before bursting into laughter. Unfortunately for Ji'all this meant a mouthful of peach juice sprayed on her. Well-trained as she was though, she made no effort to lift her face or shift from her position.

"No no, nothing of the sort. It's difficult to explain. The Raloi, like most other species that were conquered during pre-ftl civilization states, are normally confined to their home system for a couple of generations until they have by-and-large learned their place as servants of the Hegemony. Then large-scale export may occur when the local species has learned that they belong to us and resisting our efforts to utilize them across our territory is futile and unnatural. Buying one before the official restrictions are lifted is something of a status symbol. A bit of subtle ostentation as it were."

Shepard snorted in kind.

"Subtle eh? A valet from an enslaved world of bipedal buzzard men?"

Hanak shook his head in amusement.

"Okay, maybe not that subtle."

The two shared a laugh, all the while enjoying the cool night air of Nos Astra, before at last Shepard gathered her companions and left the estate.

* * *

><p><em>Nos Astra, Tzu District<em>

Again with the waiting. It never ends. First waiting for his contact to arrive, now (potentially) his target. The broker's information had indeed been genuine, but Garrus knew better than most the size of Nos Astra. It would have taken far too long to search each possible sight for signs of the ship at each of the unlicensed landing pads. However, the air traffic regulators kept records of initial flight trajectories of detected transponders, narrowing the possible landing sights to 2 locations.

A couple of hours and a quick flash of Spectre credentials later, Garrus at last found security footage from near the Ujon district, showing a small trio of humans near one of his possible landing pads, and confirmation of a large shipment of concealed cargo heading towards their point of origin. Whatever else was going on, Garrus had a hunch that this was his target. He went over the security footage several more times, analyzing again and again the 3 humans. He figured the one in the center, with the dark skin, hair, and blue eyes, to be the leader, flanked by two of her crew. Possibly the Captain of the vessel, or at least one of their higher-ups.

And thus, did the son of Vakarian find himself staking out the likely path of their return at a table in an open-air restaurant, trying not to end his own life from boredom. He maintained his vigilance however. He couldn't guess much about the humans he now waited for, but from the looks of them, they would at least be more discrete than the group of morons he last had to follow. Suddenly, from out of the corner of his eye, Garrus caught a glimpse of a descending air car, and the exit of 3 occupants. His targets. He slowly followed them out of the corner of his eye, knowing that the time to make his presence known was rapidly approaching. Time to put his plan in motion, hoping, for once, it might survive contact with the enemy.

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. Life's crazy lately. Thanks to all my loyal readers. Leave reviews!_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 7: At Knife's Edge

_**In shield fighting, one moves fast on defense, slow on attack. Attack has the sole purpose of tricking the opponent into a misstep, setting him up for the attack sinister. The shield turns the fast blow, admits the slow kindjal!**_

-Gurney Halleck, "Dune"

It took Shepard all of about 7 minutes to realize they were being tailed. The Turian following was, if nothing else, professional about his work. There was nothing to be seen to the untrained eye other than a random pedestrian going about his business. But Shepard had seen, fought, and killed more than a few children of Palaven in her time, and knew better than most the walk, stride, and look of one moving with a purpose. Poor timing this one, she hadn't expected for their location to be found out by the Hierarchy for at least a couple more days, time which she was hoping could be used to gather more supplies and meet another contact.

Ever the master of the inward scowl, Aliya forced her expression to remain unchanged as she discretely signed the new problem with some discrete motions of the hand. Her two compatriots, quite familiar with the subtle communication signals being sent their way, nodded reluctantly, realizing that their commanding officer was _**once again**_ disregarding the fact that she had subordinates to delegate tasks to and was going to more or less handle this situation by her lonesome. She did, however, bring herself to assign Mr. Taylor one task. Carefully removing a small, cylindrical object from his bandolier, Jacob applied a very small, almost unnoticeable amount of biotic energy to it and slowly sent it floating through a nearby crowd, unseen as it made it's way to the intended target.

* * *

><p>It was slight, almost unnoticeable, but Garrus saw it. He had been found out. This trio, despite their outwardly unremarkable appearance, clearly were at least perceptive (dare he say <em>trained<em>) enough to notice his pursuit of them. A disconcerting turnaround to say the least. The Spectre was renowned for, among other things, his skill at stalking and tracking his target, pursuing his prey like a vengeful spirit whose work was not yet complete, all the while remaining unnoticed to the poor sap(s) he was following. To have been discovered, especially in such a brief span of time was most dissatisfying. However, more importantly, it put his mission in jeopardy to say the very least. Realizing that this situation was likely to turn south at any minute, Garrus Vakarian slowly reached for the pistol holstered on his hip, all the while maintaining an even pace and constant line of sight with his target.

In an instant, his world erupted in noise and light. A powerful explosion suddenly rocked a nearby apartment complex, sending passer-by's flying from the shock wave and others lying on the ground, screeching in agony. Garrus himself was taken slightly by surprise, the flash and sound of explosions and terrified voices filling the air all at the same time left him slightly disoriented. Quickly righting himself and regaining his bearings, he attempted to reacquire line of sight, only to be denied by the panicked mob now rushing and jostling around him. Frantically glancing about, the Spectre desperately tried to regain control of the situation when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted her. The presumed leader of the group, now dashing towards him, certainly hoping to clear the at least 50 meter distance between them, moving gracefully through the frightened crowd and denying Garrus his shot.

Fighting between the Humans and Turians had always been a bit of a coin-toss. The descendents of a long-extinct bird of prey who's next step was to gradually make the transition to land-dweller, the Turian eye was unequaled in keenness of vision, able to see at distance more than a half greater than that of a human eye, as well as a superior capacity to track rapid movement. Though it was rumored that some infants of the new generation had closed some of the gap thanks to new advancements in in-vitro genetic engineering, the vast majority of humans were thoroughly outmatched in visual prowess. While it made little difference in duels between snipers (those battles involved technology that allowed one to see distances further than ANY species could discern), Turian rifle-men had always possessed an advantage at the distances now experienced by Garrus Vakarian and his opponent. Urban warfare however, was a different animal.

Though the Turian eye was unequaled in distance, the transition to land-dweller had not been completely kind. With a shifted perspective to that of their ancestors and a new imperative to focus on tool use, their eyes evolved to focus in on objects closer to themselves, causing a substantial, long-term decrease in their field of vision for modern Turians. Thus, it limited their situational awareness compared to that of an average human, whose eyes had a visual field of 200 degrees on monocular vision and 120 degrees of binocular vision (compared to 160 degrees and 105 degrees for the Turians), giving the Humans a distinct advantage in city combat, where where visual distances were shortened by artificial constructs and being able to see threats coming from the side a second sooner meant the difference between living and dying.

This disadvantage now began to work brutally against Garrus. The explosion had sent the crowd of pedestrians into a frenzied panic. With no way of knowing the cause or direction, a mob of gradually ascending chaos had begun to rush around him, quickly allowing his quarry to become lost in a haze of fleeing bodies, jostling him about and limiting his vision even further. Suddenly, a pair of gunshots rang out. Distracted though he was by further screams, he took note of the flecks of mortar that speckled his eyes a moment, signaling that the blasts had nearly grazed him and made contact with the wall behind him.

Suddenly, in his narrow peripheral vision, he spotted her again. Rushing towards him quickly, darting through the crowd. Raising his pistol to attempt a shot, she _dove_ behind a piece of rubble several meters away just before a new rush of bystanders shifted his position. Suddenly, through the thinning flood, he caught movement again. Turning to face it, the gun was swiftly knocked from his hand. A pistol was raised between the corner of his, and acting on instinct his hands rose swiftly and knocked away his opponent's weapon as well. The two swiftly moved into fighting stance, giving Garrus a split-second to really take in his adversary.

His enemy was indeed a human female, if the borderline creepy similarity to an Asari was anything to go by. Though few Turians could tell one human from another, there were some features Garrus could determine. She had dark skin, was probably a dozen centimeters shorter than him, and had short black hair. Her eyes were unusually striking though, carrying a steely determination and an unmistakable edge of hate, a trait not uncommon in many human eyes as they gazed upon the sight of their mortal enemies. No doubt a trait shared by a great many of his own people, each side having slain more parents, lovers, and friends than there were stars in night sky. His musings were brought to an abrupt end however, by the tell-tale glow of her rapidly forming omni-blade. Quickly shifting his stance and attention, Garrus gracefully extended into a modified combat position, his own omni-blade coming to form.

Omni-blade combat was tricky business. Originally, they had only been intended as a quick "stab-and-dispose" weapon, until someone had the bright idea to tie the blade's power-source into secondary capacitors hidden on the greaves of armor hard-points. As a result, the weapons could now last up to thirty minutes until the mass-effect field collapsed. They were rather awkward, being wrist mounts and all, but the "blades" were virtually unbreakable and the searing hot silicon-carbide could slice through armor with the same ease as Salarian flesh. A fact Garrus kept well in mind as his adversary's illuminated carbide weapon sliced towards him in a swiping motion.

The two thrust and parried for several minutes. Garrus' height, and subsequent reach, exceeded the female's by a fair margin. However, his human opponent was clearly well-practiced, with what seemed more than a fair amount of experience battling Turian enemies in melee combat and substantial flexibility and agility to back it up, allowing her to move fluidly inside his reach. Their personal kinetic barriers only complicated the situation further, as the mass-effect fields in which the blades were suspended would slow down the movement of their weapons if they made contact with the shields at too high a speed, breaking the rhythm of their attack at a vital moment.

Nearby, the sound of sirens rapidly approached. The authorities, no doubt summoned by the deafening explosion which rocked the area, were making frantic pace via air car. However, between the panicking crowd and general confusion, odds were good that they were still about 10 minutes away. He'd have to end this swiftly. Spectre or no, Illium authorities took a rather _conservative_ line when it came to punishing those it viewed as criminals.

* * *

><p>The situation was getting quite a bit more desperate than initially anticipated. Ducking underneath a quick swipe of her enemy's weapon, she took note of the increasing intensity of the noise from the local sirens. The police would be upon them soon, and she had the sneaking suspicion they were going to make <strong>some kind <strong>of issue about her decision to have her Master-at-Arms biotically fling a grenade at a nearby apartment complex to distract her unwanted follower. Spinning to avoid her foe's next jab, she analyzed her options. Odds were good that her officers had already made it back to the ship and told everybody to haul ass and prepare for a quick take-off into the final frontier. All that was left for her was to end the distraction and piss off when she had the chance.

She quickly analyzed her adversary. A tall bastard, like most Turians, it was a good bet that he was also considerably heavier than her. Rather than trying her luck in a grappling match with what was no doubt a Spectre moonlighting for his home-world on the side, she quickly decided upon a course of action both impressive and insane. As his omni-blade came down upon her, she quickly raised her own in a parrying motion. The turian sped up the pace of his weapon, no doubt expecting to make contact, only for Shepard spin out at the last moment. A feint! Realizing his error too late, her enemy lost balance slightly, over-committing to the thrust and subsequently thrown off by the omni-blade's mass effect field making contact with her kinetic barrier at a relatively high speed. Using the momentum from her motion, Shepard continued her spin and lept into the air, smashing her enemies arm against the weight of her leg and greaves with a fierce side kick.

Crying out in shock and pain, the turian hesitated a moment before the Aliya proceeded to follow up with a devastating right hook to his jaw, damaging one of the mandibles and knocking the Spectre to the ground. Seeing her chance, Aliya Shepard deactivated the mass-effect field and allowed the blade to drop off, dissolving almost instantly as the field was no longer available to contain the intense heat. With that, the Cerberus captain disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

><p>"Shit."<p>

Really, there was no other thought Garrus could verbalize to accurately sum up his day. His target escapes, he has a barely functioning arm and mandible within a hair of being broken, and local authorities arriving mere moments after it all happened, with him at the scene of the crime, meant almost 36 hours of intensive non-stop questioning. Always the same things being shouted, "We're not a Council world," "Limited jurisdiction here," "Respect our laws," "8 killed, dozens wounded," the usual song and dance local cops gave him every time something went wrong. All he ended up getting for all his trouble was a further blow to his pride when he was informed that the vessel he had been trying to find had escaped the dock's lock-down order in the nick of time, and in the confusion slipped out of the system.

Finally given leave to go after the officers reluctantly acceded to his point regarding technical Spectre immunity (Council treaties could be a real bitch to local cops), he wearily trudged his way back to his little headquarters. He was not looking forward to the reports to be made tonight: losing his target, civilians killed, and a potential interstellar incident between Illium and Palaven to boot. Hard though it was, Garrus made some effort to find a silver-lining in all this. He now had a ship, information on what they were gathering and how they were gathering, and face without a name. That would have to be enough to tide him over for now.

One thing was clear now though: whoever this human was, she had just caused a major pain in his ass to develop. As far as Garrus was concerned, that was more than enough to make this personal...

* * *

><p>"Well, that went pretty well if I do say so myself!"<p>

Joker glanced at his commanding officer, an upturned eyebrow his only response.

"Uh...captain. You do realize that we had to cut our trip short by about 3 days and slink away from Illium security forces with our tail between our legs right?"

Shepard waved a dismissive hand in kind.

"You always worry too much Joker! A set-back nothing more, that situation could have gone much worst."

Her helmsmen merely sighed in response before turning his head back to the view screen.

"That's not exactly a rousing endorsement of the outcome Captain."

A slight pause filled the room, giving the acerbic pilot a small amount of concern before his captain responded in an even voice.

"Joker, I have had a very long day. If want to look on the bright-side of this situation, that is my right as the goddamned Captain. And as your Captain, I'm giving you a standing order to smile and look at the silver-lining this instant. Understood?"

Slightly terrified, Joker quickly plastered a forced grin on his face before swiveling his chair completely around.

"You know me captain! Always ready to look on the bright side of life and all that."

A small grin adorned Shepard's face in response.

"Excellent, I knew I could count on you to help maintain crew morale! Carry on Mr. Moreau."

Shepard made a leisurely retreat from the cockpit. When the door closed behind her, Joker slumped back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief. Friends though they were, Joker knew better than most how terrifying Shepard could be when she perceived others as making an annoying day worst.

End Chapter.

AN: I'd make an excuse for why this is so late, but I don't really have one except for the fact that I'm lazy and I drink a lot *****wink *wink. Hoping the next update won't be so long (I actually have some ideas for moving on from here, so hopefully writers block won't be an issue next time). Leave reviews loyal readers (and disloyal readers as well ^_^)!


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect or Dr. Who.

Chapter 8: Prime Movers

_In nature, there are neither rewards or punishments – there are consequences._

_**-Robert Ingersoll**_

Miranda Lawson was not one to simply walk to a location, casually strolling without a care in the world. The youngest member of the Alliance Naval Intelligence to ever be named Vice-Director of black-ops R&D as a full Colonel, Operative Miranda Lawson had long ago acquired the body language of one who (deservedly) considered herself beyond being fucked with. No, Miranda was a woman of purpose, and as such she had precisely two modes of walking: confident stride, and weary trudge (but with a striding quality, she was a higher-up after all). Today her gait leaned more towards the latter as she made her way through the station corridors, garbed in the usual dress blues befitting a staff officer. Oddly enough, however, there was no particular event or incident that was the source of her irritation. Rather it was the company she was about to endure, plus the fact that she had nearly 3 kilometers of walking between the docking ring and the offices she was now heading to to grow increasingly trepidacious at the conversation partner she was off to meet.

The Arcturus Station, along with being a wonder to behold, held a great many men and women of interest and authority, as befit the structure serving as the center of the Alliance Navy. Originally a rather slap-dash structure to offer a headquarters for the coalition effort that would one day totally unite humanity under a single banner, and built in a System which by treaty could be claimed by no individual Earth nation, it had been expanded and added upon significantly over the past several decades. Now nearly twice it's original mass, it boasted the most powerful anti-matter reaction systems in the known galaxy, as well as one the strongest defense networks in the history of any species, protected by multiple layers of prototype kinetic/energy barriers, countless point-defense particle cannons and capital-ship class torpedo launchers and plasma-projectors, and enough fighter craft to blot out out the local sun. However, unknown to all but a handful of key personnel, it's real defensive strength lay in the fact that it was within a single "jump" range of 1 of the (now) 3 defensive fleets equipped with the rapid-reaction space-fold drive, guaranteeing them the element of surprise against any force that managed to make it into system whose Relay served as the gateway to Sol.

All this grandeur was lost on Miranda, however, as she at last came to the office of Ai Wei, head of Alliance Operational Intelligence. Heaving one final long-suffering sigh, Miranda at last announced his presence to the proximity-activated VI. A few more minutes of waiting, and the door slid open to allow her access.

The office of Ai Wei was something of an anomaly, mainly because she had a tendency to change the decor at random. The incarnation that now stared Lawson in the face had an appearance somewhat akin to an ancient armory, suited more for an ancient Castle or Fortress than a professional office on a highly advanced space station, but she had seen it take on more than a few more interesting looks in the past (the only one she ever truly enjoyed was the time she made it look like the interior of the TARDIS). Her proclivity towards excessive personalization was of course well outside the boundaries of regulations, but given the woman's occasional inclinations towards casual violence and extensive dossiers of personal details of everyone aboard the station, none ever had the balls to stand up to her on the subject. There were, however, a few details to the room which remained perpetual, among which included a rather large, spinning galaxy map taking up nearly 1/4th of the office, allowing her to keep careful tabs on the various threats to human space as it updated in real-time, as well as in-depth information on classified operations occurring across half the known galaxy.

Stellar cartography had always been an odd, for lack of a better word, "science." When looking at a topside view of the galaxy, it gave off the illusion of a flat surface, with stars and distributed more or less uniformly and rotating around the center of the spiral, divided neatly into 4 separate quadrants. What most of these charts didn't show, however, was that on top of being 100,000 light years in diameter, the galaxy also had a "width" of roughly 1000 light years, which ballooned to more than 10,000 light years in width closer to the core. More to the point each star system had a dominant gravity-well generated by the local sun that stretched out in 3 dimensions, and each star moved relative to each other star. Even after millenia of interstellar civilization, the species of the Citadel still clung to planet-bound vernacular: borders, fronts, territory, etc., able to do so since travel based around the Mass-Relay network could create what might loosely be called a "border," as well as a "front" for the conflict between humanity and the turians.

Trying to define territory in interstellar space was a difficult challenge to say the least, but it was generally accepted that the sovereign territory of a system under the control of an FTL civilization was defined as a sphere of influence within a 2 light year radius from the center of a star's gravity-well, including all worlds and stellar debris within said gravity-well. This distinction, however, was mainly useful for the purposes of determining the local jurisdictions of independent worlds or local authorities for systems under the rule of species who separated their territory into individual units. From a practical stand-point, control over a star cluster's primary Mass Relay meant control over the entire star cluster, regardless of how much of it had been charted or explored. A few clusters were jointly ruled by a number of Citadel species by mutual agreement, but for the most part it was agreed that possession of a Relay meant ownership of whatever it offered access to. Though the Alliance was not technically recognized by the Citadel Council as a sovereign nation, the boundaries of it's territory had by now been well-defined according to these informal, 2500 year old standards of civilization.

None of which currently held the attention of the short, Beijing native who was, at the moment, was sitting in a corner of the room staring at an ancient broadsword intently, as though she expected the stupid thing to suddenly acquire the gift of speech and share with her the mysteries of life. Slightly accustomed to her flights of fancy after several decades of association, Miranda moved to the center of the office and cleared her throat loudly.

"Wei."

To wit there was no response, as the head of AOI kept staring at the blade. Several minutes of agitation building up left Miranda ready to speak with a touch more authority in her voice, only to be interrupted.

"Do you know the greatest mad genius of human history, Colonel?"

Know full well he would get nowhere without playing along at least a bit, Miranda merely shrugged her shoulders and answered with a reluctant tone.

"I don't know...the first to figure out people would pay for sex maybe?"

A slight pause, before Wei turned to her with a stoic face and twinkling eyes.

"The one who invented the sword. Think about it. For every weapon that preceded the sword, warfare was a tertiary use. You could chop and shape wood with axes and knives, you could hunt game with spears or arrows. Hell, even the weapon that came after, the gun, could be used just as easily to catch dinner. But the sword? It's useless for cutting, carving, hunting, or any other purpose. It exists for one reason: to exterminate intelligent life."

Miranda opened her mouth, hoping this was a break in Wei's little monologue, only to be cut off again (to her increasing irritation).

"Imagine the kind of man who would make such a thing. The brilliance required to conceive of such a revolutionary leap in thought. The cruel misanthropy of spirit that would motivate him to shape metal for such a purpose. I suspect I would have very much enjoyed his company."

Generally, Miranda would just tune this out, buts he was here for a specific reason, and being denied that reason was giving her a headache.

"Wei, I swear to god..."

Interrupted once again.

"You don't believe in a god."

A grinding of teeth greeted that.

"A figure of speech then! Look Wei, I'm not here to play 20 questions with the voices you've probably got buzzing about your head at the moment. I'm here because we have a serious situation to discuss."

Still seated in her chair, Wei's lips twisted slightly into a smirk.

"What could it be that concerns you so, Colonel? The situation in the Mjolnir System perhaps? I wouldn't worry too much about that. The Hierarchy has brought many ships to hold the area, but none are construction vessels, and only a bare handful are supply ships. Not enough to continue past where they now stand, no chance to push their advantage. The admiral in charge of that operation has tactical competence I suppose, but a limited strategic imagination. The region will be of no use except to secure them with the knowledge that none of the precious element zero shall belong to humankind, and it opens new opportunities in other arenas of conflict."

Miranda merely quirked an eyebrow at the woman, much of her agitation reined in. Between all her eccentricities, it was sometimes easy to forget the kind of mind that burned behind the mischievous, dark eyes of Ai Wei.

"Not at the moment Wei. That is a situation I'll leave to the War Council, and to you. I don't doubt you have more than a few ideas for how to turn their 'victory' to ash in their mouths."

Wei chuckled merrily.

"Underway as we speak. So what troubles you then my dear Miranda, that would bring you so far from the tranquil pleasures of the Mother Earth, a mere 2 months after your journey to the Enoch system no less?"

Lawson barely managed to avoid showing surprise on her face. She rarely left division headquarters on Earth, but when she did, it was always a military secret, not something that should cross from one Intelligence Service to another.

"How did you know about that?"

Ai Wei glanced incredulously at her in response. It took Miranda a brief instant to realize the foolishness of her surprise given the context of who she was speaking to.

"Yes, yes of course. Never mind."

Wei smiled condescendingly before waving her hand in what the abashed operative could only assume was a "carry on with it" gesture.

"No doubt you've heard about the terrorist attack in Nos Astra?"

By now, Ai's attention had turned to her hand as she picked imaginary bits of dirt from her nails.

"Of course. AOI has an army of agents in that cluster. There are officials on that planet we watch so closely that I'm fairly certain we've a detailed file on their bowel-movements somewhere."

"...thank you for that. I presume you also realize that what little security footage we were able to snatch in our moment of opportunity clearly show a fight between a known Turian Spectre and a human woman who, as anyone with a more than discerning eye could tell, clearly had Alliance special forces training?"

For her trouble, Wei responded with a bored hum as she continued to stare at her hand. Undaunted, Miranda gave a little head tilt and pressed on.

"The point, Wei, is that this could not have come at a worst moment. We're in a delicate position in our talks with Aria, and her cooperation is beyond necessary for our efforts to determine the source of the leak and their plans. The last thing we need is an attack by human terrorists on one of the most lucrative neutral markets in the known universe to push her over the edge and decide to pursue opportunity elsewhere."

Ai's attention had turned back to the broadsword hanging from her wall, her back now to Miranda. Perturbed, Lawson carried on.

"I'm the one who was designated the 'enviable' task of meeting with Aria, to coordinate the efforts of the agents who are going to be involved in the investigation. Much as I hate to be reassigned from R&D, I intend to see this assignment through, and would appreciate any assistance you might be able to offer me in convincing her to stay the course. Carrot, stick, I don't really care."

Ai just swiveled a bit more from side to side, seemingly oblivious. She was, however, able to answer before Lawson's angered reared up at being ignored.

"I sincerely doubt Aria would abandon relations so casually with her most lucrative business associates. However, if you truly feel that concerned about it, here's a little something to bring up in the event that she tries to strong-arm you a bit."

A few strokes on the holographic display projected onto her desk, Wei's message was received instantly by Miranda. Glancing over it quickly, Miranda's eyes nearly doubled in diameter.

"...this is real?"

Ai spun her chair to face Miranda, grinning like a child with a new toy.

"Real as real can be. Not much use to the Alliance, but absolutely guaranteed to get Aria's dick to stand straight at attention when she reads it and forgive any and all trespasses; real, imagined or otherwise. I suggest you hold onto it as a last resort. If you don't end up needing it to convince her, it might come in handy for a rainy day."

"How did you...?"

"Don't ask. However, one thing is rather puzzling to me. This conversation could have easily been done by email and not taken a moment out of your precious schedule. And yet, here you are. Why is that Miranda? What else concerns you?"

Miranda, in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty, shifted uncomfortably in place before taking a seat.

"Surely it could not have escaped, the magnitude of the coincidence laid bare before us. For years, humans have largely kept to themselves on the independent worlds, our acts of violence nearly completely limited to our war with the turians and the occasional pirate skirmish. But now, less than 6 months after the infiltration of one of our most secure databases, the first terrorist attack in centuries on Nos Astra is carried out by a human with clear military training, in the presence of a confirmed SPECTRE."

For the first time throughout their conversation, Wei's visage turned deathly serious not a good sign.

"My thoughts exactly. Which is why, after viewing the footage, I ran a facial recognition program to comb the various databases of the armed forces to try and track her down. The results were distressing."

Miranda's eyebrow quirked up. Something Wei thought was distressing?

"What did you find?"

Wei hesitated a moment, as if searching for a word or phrase that wouldn't be the one she was forced to spit out.

"Nothing."

Cue stunned Miranda silence.

"Nothing at all?!"

"Well, not quite. I did manage to find 2 things: a codename and a discharge record. Apparently, she was called 'Herja', and was honorably discharged from the 212th division with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel roughly 10 years ago at her own request. No other information is available, pointing to one of two possibilities: somehow she served long enough to achieve a command rank and no one bothered to write it down, or someone managed to once again infiltrate our networks, only this time to scrub data rather than steal it. I don't think I have to tell you which is more likely."

Miranda leaned back in her chair, carrying a most peculiar look of contemplation on her face. Strange, Wei would've expected her to be doing the Miranda Lawson equivalent of "losing her shit" at this revelation.

"Well then...this would seem to suggest a connection of sorts, wouldn't it?"

Wei glanced cagily at her. Far more calm than she might expect, though there was a simmering anger there to go with it.

"Yes this would seem fairly definitive."

Miranda merely hummed a note of acknowledgment.

"Interesting. What kind of codename is 'Herja' though?"

Ah, one Wei did know the answer to.

"It's an old Valkyrie codename. One of the one's they gave to their units while Mindoir was still under occupation.

Miranda felt her headache return in full force. Mindoir. If there was one thing that could bring a migraine to any person in the intelligence service, it was that word.

"Damn it. Why does it always go back to Mindoir? It was useful for propaganda purposes for a time, now it just seems to keep appearing to a cyst on our collective asses. Hell, it's been trouble since the first days of the liberation counterattack."

Ai was contemplative. Some things even moved her to introspection it would seem.

"Oh yes, I remember some of those. Really rallied people into a bit of a frenzy that. My personal favorite, I think, was General Williams. Now there was a man with a vicious imagination. Captured nearly the entire 10th army on Caleston, almost 700,000 turians, transported them all to a desert more than 150 kilometers from the colonial capital, and stranded them with no food or water. Told them if they could reach the city, they would be spared and sent home. None survived, though I do remember hearing about one who made it within sight of the city on the horizon before his organs shut down."

The good Colonel was unmoved by the memory though. She had heard them all. In victory, human malice proved every bit as cruel to the vanquished as turian bluntness. Ai Wei was on a roll though.

"Still though, it isn't necessarily a solid lead. Many of the records from before the occupation don't exist anymore. The colonial databases hadn't yet been connected to the civilian internet system when the attack came, and much of the data was lost. Coupled with the fact that the Valkyries ended up accepting thousands of recruits from outside Mindoir over the course of the coming decades, there really isn't anyway to know for sure her connection to the colony."

Miranda remained, to this day, suitably impressed at Wei's capacity to focus on something in moments of importance with a detachment and objectivity few could ever muster.

"I'll discuss the matter with General Peterson before I go. We need to move swiftly, but discretely, otherwise we risk tipping this 'Herja' and Cerberus off. We'll need to put our agents within the Terminus and Alliance on alert to this woman's appearance, but the general public cannot know. We can't risk her undergoing cosmetic surgery and lose the only lead we have."

Wei nodded in response, before her face took on her normal visage of slightly manic joy.

"Seems your days are just full of trial and tribulation Ms. Lawson! I mean, all these shenanigans with the leak, your work on the Alliances more entertaining science projects, and now you get to go and speak with Aria to boot! An exciting life indeed."

Miranda's steely gaze turned weary and annoyed, her prior musings brought back to the immediate reality thanks to Wei's insufferable perkiness.

"No worst than what you all at AOI have to deal with I suppose."

Wei grinned before winking cheekily.

"Nothing so fun as you my dear Colonel. One of our bigger issues are projections concerning the end of the war. Specifically, assuming we emerge independent and free of the threat of the Citadel strongman, how are we going to acclimate society to all the wonderful new toys we've kept secret all this time."

Normally, this would be the end of any such conversation, since both had long ago had their own little "brain bombs" (as there were so charmingly referred to by secret service personnel). But thanks to to the signal being transmitted by the station's comm system at all times, the devices were, for the moment, rendered inert so long as two persons possessing them were within 20 meters of each other.

"I'll leave that headache to AOI. I have enough problems just trying to build better versions of the damned things. Not to mention that clusterfuck in the Dirac System."

Wei seemed to zone out for a second, scanning her thoughts in recollection.

"Oh yes! That weirdness with the 086 Relay and the "Sydney." What happened anyway?"

Miranda shook her head lightly. It was never a topic of conversation she enjoyed, mostly due to the required admission of the first sentence.

"We still don't know. All we can tell from it is that the Space-Fold drive, in a one-in-a-billion freak accident, glitched and proceeded to initiate a jump to its previous location, just as it exited the relay. At this point, physics as we know it ran hurtling head-first past the realm of any known theory, and the ship was caught in some kind of closed loop of mass-free space between the two relays, traveling infinitely fast in a closed path 600 light years apart. Both of the relays were inoperable for nearly a week until the engine's emergency shut-off occurred and dumped them out where they came."

"Wait, the emergency shut-off of an engine occurs almost instantly. Why did it take a week?"

Sighing, Miranda continued.

"It did occur almost instantly. In the region of space outside of the mass-free corridor, a week passed. But within it? Less than a split second. To them, it seemed like no time had passed."

Wei just smirked, before returning

"That must've hurt you eh?"

Miranda cocked her head with weary confusion.

"What?"

Ai was good enough to snigger.

"The admission of ignorance."

And now she was getting fed up.

"Actually though Miranda, I was thinking more along the lines of the more "unique" allied we've collected over the course of the war to help us even the odds a bit. What do you think the public's reaction to them might be?"

But by now, Miranda was no longer engaged in this conversation. There were limits after all.

"That is a discussion for another day Ai. Thank you for your help, I sincerely hope we don't need to speak to one another for a while."

And with that, Miranda stood up, collected her bearings, and made for the exit. Just as the door was about to close behind her, Lawson was given one final taste of Ai Wei.

"Do say 'hello' to your father for me. I so enjoy our..._conversations."_

Miranda could just hear the self-satisfied grin in her voice prior to the office being locked behind her.

"God damn you Wei..."

A/N: This chapter gave me a stupid amount of trouble, and I'll confess I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but it does get the ball rolling and prove to you all I'm not dead. Thanks for your patience. And a special shout out to MetalKing1417 for mentioning this fic on TV Tropes. I ask a special favor of anyone else so inclined to please mention "From Hell's Heart" on TV Tropes as MetalKing was kind enough to do, as it both drums up further interest in my story and also helps me feel like my existence has been validated. And as always, review!


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect. Bioware and EA, on the other hand, do.

**Chapter 9: Once and Future Kings**

"_Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, never to try again. The fall break them. And some are given the chance to climb, but refuse. They cling to realm, or the gods, or love...illusions. Only the ladder is real. There is only the climb."_

**-Lord Petyr Balish, Game of Thrones (TV Series)**

Debriefings had always seemed an odd spectacle for Garrus. Missions deemed important enough for Turian SPECTRE's on "loan" from the Citadel were not typically the kinds of situations that had a middle ground between stupefying failure and overwhelming success, and as the greatest agents of an entire species, high achievement was demanded and expected as the norm. Therefore, there tended to be 2 flavors of debrief: apathetic acknowledgment, and barely controlled rage. Given how the Illium situation turned out, Garrus suspected what road this particular meeting might be traveling. After being released by the locals and making his way wearily back to his "headquarters," he had made the obligatory contact with his superiors, not relishing in the likely chewing-out he was due to receive as he explained the blow by blow of how everything had so quickly gone to hell.

His vid-com ended up being considerably more perfunctory than expected, however, as the Illium Executor Board had already contacted Palaven to make a formal protest, including the reports of the Illium security forces and a few rather impolite inquiries as to the competence and parentage of Vakarian's immediate superiors (likely a personal addendum from the messenger). After requesting his own official record of event, he was immediately recalled back to Palaven for a more formal debriefing. With no business left on the planet, he requisitioned a transport from one of the Hierarchy-owned docking pads and took his leave of this damned affair. As with most traveling in space not related to combat, it was a relatively smooth journey, the only distractions being the feeling of the vessel during its initial acceleration before the engines were cut upon reaching the desired velocity and the later reverse acceleration to slow the transport as it approached the Mass Relay. All in all, nothing of particular interest, much to Garrus' chagrin. He would have more than welcomed a distraction from the cauldron of inconvenient thoughts he had simmering in his mind.

The mission had been an unprecedented disaster, never before had any assignment he had been involved gone so completely wrong. Even with the handful of new facts he had managed to acquire, he was left with nothing tangible to show for his efforts. No names, no suspects in custody, not even a hint of why they were on the planet. The only real breakthrough he had managed to score was visual data with his ocular implant. Not for the first time was he grateful for the device, if for no other reason than now having a thorough physical and facial profile on at least one of his targets, even if it was in the form of a recording of having his ass handed to him by a woman nearly a dozen centimeters shorter than him. And even this particular line of thought was a preferable distraction to the thoughts he had been cursed with since his conversation with his old friend Saren.

Garrus had never really been one to question the so-called "morality" of war, or more specifically, the turian way of waging it. War was hell, a bloody and terrible singularity of events without mercy or compassion. There was no point in pretending it was anything else, and in order to carry it out successfully, the conflict had to be brought to all levels of society. The turian refusal to recognize the existence of non-combatants, while seemingly cruel to outsiders, was in his mind perfectly logical. The more ferociously battle is brought to all levels of the society being fought against, the sooner it can be ended and all the more lives saved as a result. However, even Garrus had felt his stomach turn slightly at the thought of what he had heard, of the true depths of the savagery committed against the colonists of Mindoir.

Oh, he could understand well enough the conditions that might drive a man to it. A long, bitter campaign, a world that refused to be pacified, thousands of soldiers perishing as they tried to bring under control what had already been theoretically conquered. But to kill so many, most of whom were largely confined to labor camps, simply to prove a point? Even if under turian doctrine there were no non-combatants, that would still technically make them prisoners of war. And even during the Krogan Rebellions, there had been protocols for dealing with POW's. The fierceness of the human liberation campaign now carried new weight. Turian ferocity was being responded to by Human savagery, with both sides stepping up the scale of their retribution on one another, and it was increasing in intensity as time went on. They were not armies any more, they were hordes. Not soldiers anymore, just killers. Saren's words were becoming all the more poignant so long as he reflected upon them: _"I want this war to end, before it ends us."_ The war with humanity had cost them so much, changed them so much, that even if there was final victory, who they once were would likely be lost forever.

Finally after several days of prolonged exposure to the nothingness of space and the bleakness of his own thoughts, the shuttle finally arrived on the homeworld. Unlike his last visit, however, there was no casual meandering through the capital to enjoy familiar surroundings for a moment. His superiors were no doubt aware the moment his shuttle had touched down on the planetary surface and he very much doubted they would tolerate any delay. He flagged down a nearby air-taxi and was swiftly whisked to the Ministry of Intelligence.

Garrus could feel a slight churning of nervousness in his stomach as the building came into sight, but he quickly subdued it. Whatever their reaction or consequence, he would face them head on, own up to what happened and hope that his record would be enough to stand on as they decided what to do with him for the immediate future. Odds were relatively good he would retain his rank as a Spectre. These days there was nearly always a shortage of available agents with his abilities and experience, so there was little doubt that they would continue to need him no matter what problems the incident on Illium had churned up. But there was always a chance that he could be placed on temporary suspension while they waited for things to blow over, or even reassigned to something less critical. Garrus sincerely hoped this would not be the case.

Whatever this human was involved in, she was a severe threat to the Hierarchy. She was cunning, a skilled fighter, and clearly more than willing to do whatever she considered necessary to achieve her goals. Coupled with the fact that she was clearly backed by a well-funded and capable terrorist organization with access to highly advanced military technology, Garrus was more than convinced she was deeply involved in something very likely to be a direct threat to his nation and species. And no one else had enough exposure to her or her activities to track her down and stop whatever plot she was behind. However, considering his recent failure and the fact that he had nothing but a list of materials delivered to her vessel and conjecture as evidence, there were at the moment no guarantees he could convince his superiors of the immediacy of the threat or the fact that he alone was the one to stop it.

All these considerations came to an abrupt halt as he entered the antechamber of the Ministry and he suddenly developed tunnel vision focusing him on the path to his destination. Nodding curtly to the guards, he strode to the elevators and made his way to the top floor, where Primarch Sparatus' office was located. There was, however, something of a twist to this journey. As he approached the Primarch's office, Garrus could clearly hear shouting being exchanged by 2 voices which were quite clearly did not belong to Sparatus. This minor mystery was quickly resolved when the door slid open to reveal a somewhat unusual entourage. A small group of officers from the Turian High Command had crowded into the room along with, oddly enough, Urdnot Wrex.

Wrex was something of an anomaly, though quite an infamous one, recognizable even to Garrus by reputation alone. The first mentions of his existence went back to the Krogan Rebellion and likely only stopped there since records prior to that time were incomplete and of questionable accuracy, likely making him older than the most ancient of modern Asari matriarchs by centuries. Following the rebellions he appeared sporadically throughout galactic history, usually as nothing more than a simple mercenary following his failed attempt to rally something of his people together for more than pointless crusading following the genophage. Then, several years ago, seemingly out of nowhere, he made rapid movements through the ranks of the feared mercenary organization the Blood Pack, finally emerging as 1 of the 3 leaders of the organization, with absolute authority over all Blood Pack activities outside of the Terminus.

And there was little doubt to any who encountered him how he had earned that position. Possessing a ruthlessness and brilliance of leadership that only came with countless centuries of experience, combined with pure physical ability and force of will, he was a force to be reckoned with, beating what was once an army of thugs and gangsters into a disciplined, professional fighting force, ultimately proving himself utterly indispensable to the Turian government. With so many of their fleets and armies drawn to the war against the humans, internal policing actions against the Turian client species' and handful of separatist groups which still lingered centuries after the Unification Wars, had been largely outsourced to Blood Pack mercenaries, with most of the Turian mercenaries of the Blue Suns having answered the clarion of war calling them to return to service, and the Eclipse not having the stomach or specialists necessary to carry on planetary suppression campaigns. The largely Krogan and Vorcha force (along with a growing number of Batarian expatriates) maintained a sizable naval force and army moored at various Lagrange point stations between Palaven and Impera in the Trebia System, ensuring that they could quickly reach any hotspot within the Hierarchy's sphere of influence, while also ensuring that the Turian home fleet can keep an eye on them and quickly summon reinforcements.

At the moment, however, even the giant Krogan was rendered largely irrelevant in the face of the 2 Admirals currently engaged in a rather heated exchange of words.

"This entire campaign was a mistake from the outset! Nearly 70 ships lost in a single engagement, with an additional 500 tied down in one system doing absolutely nothing! Guarding an untapped well and scratching their asses while other sectors now lay virtually unprotected!"

Ah, good old Lucanus. An admiral representing the old guard of Turian military tradition. There was little surprise in his position. Their kind had long favored the older style methods of Turian campaigning: a slow, methodical advance, ensuring all avenues of retaliation were protected and the Hierarchy proper rendered untouchable. The reverses and stalemate against the humans had made them only more cautious, reluctant to commit too much of their already stretched fleets to any one engagement.

"They only remain there because of your damned recommendation to the Council of Primarchs! The human withdrawal was a major opportunity! If we had moved quickly enough, we could have pushed them out of that star cluster all-together and seized the only Primary Relay in that entire sector!"

And in typical fashion, stood against him one of the leading voices of the younger members of the Turian High Command, Admiral Tullia Oraka, daughter of the recently deceased Septimus Oraka. She was of the generation that had only ever known humans as the hated enemy of her people, and had grown up learning of human tactics and strategy. They were in turn, only too eager to try and pull away from the old ways of waging war and ceremonial natures of Hierarchy martial tradition, much to the consternation of the older generation.

"Of course I made the recommendation they go no further! There aren't enough supply ships within a dozen parsecs of Mjolnir to maintain a sustained attack on human territory. A logistical issue, I might add, only made worst by this ill-advised and poorly conceived attack!"

"We're not going to beat the humans hiding behind our relay defenses and hoping for a mistake! Every day their fleets and industrial capacity expands while we remained boxed into our old territorial sphere! If we want to have even a chance to bring this bloody affair to an end, we have to take the fight to them to maintain pressure on their stockpiles of strategic resources!"

"And we're not going to beat them by simply throwing our ships pointlessly at random sectors of the front and hoping for the best!"

"We had no choice! Every day we were bleeding ships and soldiers in that system. Over time, we would have lost several times what we lost in a single decisive battle."

"And in exchange for holding Mjolnir, you have left vulnerable every colony world from Macedyn to the fucking Galactic Accretion Disk!"

Their argument was an old one, betraying an underlying weakness of the Hierarchy's position. The Turian sphere of influence, including the territory of their client species', was absolutely enormous, easily exceeding the combined volume of the Asari Republic and Salarian Union. This was however, not a matter of pride, but necessity, as it was (from the Turian perspective), largely uninhabitable. In the grand scheme of things, the universe was by and large ridiculously hostile to life, most of it filled with worlds which no creature could ever hope to walk upon. For every 1,000 planets in the galaxy, there was perhaps 1 or 2 which were habitable without transformation.

It was, however, an even crueler situation for life based upon dextro-strand DNA, since for every 15 or so of those ever so rare habitable planets, 1 could be inhabited by the Turians (or Quarians were the Council ever to feel inclined to reverse its policy on them), and generally not cost efficient to terraform an entire world's DNA structure to compensate. It was, by and large, the primary driving force of their imperialistic ambitions, and the reason for the unusual distribution of a small number of highly developed colonial worlds spread out across a massive volume of interstellar territory, the rest mainly used for resource extraction or as military outposts. Each world that was inhabited by a substantial Turian population represented centuries of development and investment in an extremely limited living space, and were zealously defended at nearly any cost by the Fleet.

The only systems considered nearly as valuable as those possessing colony worlds were those possessing Element Zero. Due to the incredibly rare events that produced it, it was the only substance rarer than worlds habitable by Turians. And the Mjolnir system was unique even by those standards. Preliminary mining tests showed the eezo in that system to be absolutely pure, containing none of the trace elements which so often slowed down the processing of the substance. A solid month of mining in that system would yield enough processed element zero to build drive cores for an entire carrier fleet, or equip a dozen turian legions with mass accelerator weapons and vehicles. A most tempting prize, and thus the argument that now occurred in full view of a dozen staff officers and a Primarch. However, as much as Sparatus appreciated a good argument, they were all there for a different purpose.

"Enough! This is pointless. We could stand here arguing the merits of the Mjolnir Action until we perish and get absolutely nowhere. What's done is done, and we are here to deal with the immediate consequences."

Lucanus and Tullia continued to send vicious looks at one another, but were cowed. Though largely symbolic, the authority of a Primarch was not something to be ignored. Satisfied that the situation was under control for the moment, he turned his gaze towards the stoic Krogan standing in their midst.

"Overlord, as you are no doubt aware, the attack and holding actions in Mjolnir have pulled a significant number of ships and personnel from key sectors at a crucial moment. To compensate, we're going to have to re-shuffle a number of flotillas normally reserved for internal policing actions. The terrorist organization Facinus has been getting increasingly bold as of late, and may view this as an opportunity to raise some hell on Taetrus. Given the preexisting tensions between loyalists and separatist sympathizers, it may blow into a planet wide civil war if shooting starts. Is your organization up to dealing with this?"

Wrex, conveying that look of bored attentiveness he was so deceptively famous for, closed his eyes a moment. Some were surprised, as it conveyed a state of deep thought, something not normally associated with his people, before responding.

"You're not the only one's getting stretched here Sparatus. With your permission, I'd like to contact Garm back in the Terminus and have him send reinforcements as a precaution. This will ensure our continued ability to maintain a rapid-reaction capability."

All eyes turned to Sparatus at this request. No doubt the prospect of bringing in even more Krogan and Vorcha mercenaries was a prospect that would make the average Turian's skin crawl, particularly when it was a symbolic display of vulnerablity. On the other hand, they weren't exactly flushed with an excess of options. After several moments, the Primarch nodded his acceptance.

"Agreed. How many do you want to bring into Citadel Space and when?"

Wrex non-nonchalantly flicked an imaginary insect from his sleeve before tilting his head towards the Primarch.

"I'll draw up a plan to begin phasing them into the Hierarchy. It'll have numbers, time tables, your 'precautionary measures', all that good stuff. We can use that to hammer out the specific details, but I estimate we could start bringing them in as soon as 3 weeks."

Sparatus simply nodded again. He had long ago outgrown his surprise at the intellect and professionalism of the ancient krogan standing before him.

"Very good then, we'll work out the details tomorrow."

At last, Sparatus took note of the presence of a new party member. Spying Garrus near the door, his eyes grew a bit despondent and he turned back to the assembled participants.

"I believe that concludes the discussion for the day. I'll be briefing you all on the progress of the Blood Pack build-up and meeting with all of you over the next several days to discuss the upcoming fleet transfers and war games in the Caestus System. Dismissed."

This served to dissipate much of the tension in the room. Though the 2 admirals previously going at it carried the look of someone with something to say, the remainder of their entourage were visibly relieved to see this day drawn to a close. They filed out swiftly, leaving only Garrus, Sparatus, and oddly enough Wrex. Odd enough, in fact to rouse the Primarch's attention.

"Is there something else Overlord?"

Wrex gave his equivalent of a grin before turning to face the Spectre.

"Just wanted to meet the young Vakarian before I left."

Garrus' eye twitched in surprise at that.

"You know me?"

Wrex nodded his head while giving a deep, throaty chuckle.

"Indeed. Heard a lot about you, though recently it's been nothing good. Leave any chunks of yourself on Nos Astra after your little fuck-up?"

And so was Garrus' twitch made worst.

"Amusing. Glad to see a sense of humor from such a..._prolific _soldier as yourself."

Wrex just continued to grin.

"Fancy word boy. Got some meaning behind it?"

Garrus just shrugged before crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Not at all. Just making conversation, though I assume small-talk of your past history of taking whatever you can get from whoever would offer it is probably 'been-there-done-that' dull at this point."

Now there was something. Wrex's eyes furrowed and he glanced down his snout at the audacity of the smaller sapient in front of him.

"Careful there boy, because it sounds like you're coming dangerously close to questioning my professional commitment to my contract."

Bored at the gamesmanship, Garrus just reached for the immediate point.

"You've worked for the humans though I assume? Maybe made contacts or even friends amongst our enemy?"

Wrex's response was unchanged. An unconcerned shrug and a slight neck twitch.

"I've worked for many people Turian. Some of them were human. Some of them were asari. Some of them were species whose names I can't pronounce and looked like a holographic projection of someone's idea of a sick joke. What of it?"

Garrus just continued to eye him warily, his taloned-hands never wavering from their lock positions over his chest.

"Quite a free-spirit aren't you? I'm just wondering why we should trust some ancient freelancer with such a massive mercenary force in the heart of the Hierarchy."

Wrex manged to crack a toothy smirk at the brash Spectre agent.

"Simple: there aren't enough of you to carry out oppressing your clients on your own anymore. Not that it matters to me. A job's a job. You're worried about me boy? Don't be. Sure I've worked for the humans before. The pay was good and my contacts were professional, but they weren't fans of long-term arrangements. They preferred to handle their own shit in their own way. An admirable attitude after a fashion, but it meant I could only expect to be hired once in a while for single missions. I'm old as hell Vakarian, and I like a little job security. And so, here I am, ready to carry on the ancient and venerable cause of lining my own pocket with blood money. And as long as that work remains regular, you can trust me as surely as you trust the spinning of your planet."

Garrus' eyes narrowed. This was what they had to turn to?

"How comforting. Glad to know we can depend upon the upright character of men like you for our security."

Wrex's eyes glinted with humor. Few things he enjoyed more than baiting a turian with a little fight in him.

"Don't look down upon me too much boy. You're people want to keep being the biggest swinging dick in the universe, they're gonna have to get used to it."

Garrus took this as an opportunity for a bit of posturing, at last letting his arms move across his chest to continue staring down his adversary.

"Is that so Urdnot?"

Wrex just continued to smirk.

"Of course pup. It's a big galaxy out there, full of all kinds of people, each one wanting something different. The Asari and Salarians desperately everything the back to the way it was, your kind and the Humans want each others' worlds in ashes, the Batarians and Terminus want this little blood feud to carry on to the heat death of the universe..."

Garrus was not one for run-on sentences it seemed.

"And what about you?"

Wrex was undeterred by the interruption.

"Like I said, I'm an old man. At this point, I just want to live long enough to make my fortune and settle a few scores before the cosmos finally cobbles together something that can put my ass down permanently."

Apparently satisfied that this was the conclusion of their conversation, Wrex glanced behind one last time.

"Good day Primarch."

And then, with a handful of lumbering steps, the stoic giant made his exit, leaving the Head of Naval Intelligence alone with his subordinate.

"Well, that was certainly interesting."

Sparatus merely sighed in response before collapsing wearily in his chair.

"Yes, you could say that about all our interactions. He's an effective leader and shoulder, but he's not the most diplomatic creature in history. However, that's not why we're hear, is it?"

At long last, they turned to the subject at hand.

"I assume you read my report, sir."

Sparatus merely shook his head in response.

"Your official report is neither here nor there Vakarian. No one doubts your account of events, because your account is not relevant. What is relevant is the outcome. I don't care who caused that explosion, because Nos Astra doesn't care. All they know is that an explosion and riot occurred due to an encounter between some random human who may or may not be a criminal by their standards and a Turian Spectre operating on Hierarchy authority outside their jurisdiction. Take a guess who they chose to blame."

Garrus was somewhat taken aback at this. Had the situation really devolved that quickly? However, if there was one thing he was gifted for, it was regaining his bearings.

"Primarch, I realize that what happened on Illium was...problematic for the Hierarchy..."

But, as it turned out, Sparatus was not in the mood for niceties.

"It was a gods-damned catastrophe Vakarian. Dozens were killed in the encounter between you and that woman, along with millions of credits in property damage in the ensuing chaos. The Illium Board of Executors is threatening to freeze the assets and accounts of the Volus Protectorate and forbid Hierarchy ships from entering their airspace for at least a year. I've got Volus business representatives all but demanding we send your head to Nos Astra on a platter to placate the authorities, and more than a few on the Council of Primarchs who want to cobble together a board of inquiry."

Garrus' mind quickly leapt back to his worst-case scenario and then multiplied it by 10. All his work and all his efforts come to this! However, before he could respond, Sparatus, sensing his concern, raised a talon and carried on.

"Don't worry, it's not going to come to that. I've still got pull with the Council, and up to now your record has been impeccable. The Primarchs will shout and rattle their sabers briefly before turning their attention to other matters. And the Volus and Illium authorities will give us the evil eye and put us on ice briefly before Palaven makes a few minor concessions and pays off the right people. However, for the moment, I want you to lay low. Take a sabbatical or something for a month or so, let Nos Astra get that foul taste out of it's mouth."

Garrus, at last, reached a point he could no longer endure.

"Sir, you can't take me off this case! Thus human has already disappeared into the Terminus and if we don't keep the pressure on her, she'll strike again!"

The bemused Primarch merely sighed in agitation.

"Strike again? Garrus, you don't even have proof she struck a first time."

But Garrus wouldn't let up.

"Sir, our the information our contact on Nos Astra gave me all but confirmed she was at the very least tied to a recent, major pirate attack on one of our conveys, if not directly responsible. As the data from my ocular implant will show, she's clearly received advanced special forces training, and has access to technology and money well beyond the means of some random group of pirates."

Sparatus continued to simply look deeply unsatisfied.

"None of which is evidence of anything. All we have is supposition. You don't have a name, a point of origin or destination, something that points to their goals, or any kind of leads. All you have is a transponder signal implicating her in one of the dozens of attacks that take place on our convoys every year and a list of machine parts and material delivered to her ship that could be used for almost any purpose."

Garrus couldn't deny what the Primarch was saying, but he also couldn't let it go.

"Listen sir, I admit I can't definitively prove anything, but I can still read between the lines. She's behind something major. I can feel it in my gut, and if we don't act against her, the consequences for the Hierarchy could be disastrous!"

Sparatus gave him a rather odd look, but before he had a chance to shoot him down, Garrus gave it one last effort.

"You told me to go on a sabbatical right? Fine, I'll do so. If you agree to give me access to my expense accounts and a small ship, I can pursue this on my own. Not as a Spectre or Agent of the Hierarchy, but as a private citizen. I'll do what I can to avoid Citadel Space or any of the particularly respectable neutral planets, and if anything happens I can be disavowed."

**That** gave Sparatus pause. Leaning back in his chair and lowering his eyes a moment, he gave Garrus the kind of hope that only comes when someone appears to be considering something in your favor.

"How can you be certain you'll find anything, or if pursuing this woman is even within the realm of possibility? For all you know, she could be deep within the Alliance."

At last, a question he could answer without negative consequence.

"The information I've gathered points to involvement with the terrorist group Cerberus. As far as the Ministry of Intelligence has been able to discern, they've been disavowed by the Alliance and operate primarily within the Terminus. And after the Illium incident, it's unlikely she'll be roaming anywhere near Citadel Space or any of the non-Terminus neutrals, for fear of being spotted. As for finding her, I've made a few contacts over the years. Friends who know things that others are not supposed to know. I have a feeling one of them will be able to point me in the right direction."

Sparatus retained his look of wary, not quite convinced interest in the proposal. Garrus decided to push just a bit further.

"Sir. Primarch, please allow me to do this. If I'm wrong, then I'll just spend my time off flying around the ass-ends of the galaxy for nothing, but if I'm right, she needs to be stopped before it's too late."

Heaving one final, resigned sigh, Sparatus at last gave answer.

"Very well, _Citizen_ Vakarian. Give me 3 days, and I'll have a small ship ready for you, and work out a deal to get you access to some of your Spectre accounts."

Managing (barely) to hold on to his professional facade in spite of his inward ecstasy, Garrus saluted sharply.

"Thank you sir. I guarantee you will not regret this."

Receiving a likewise salute from his superior, Garrus made an about face for the door. However, before his exit, the Primarch gave one last command.

"See that I don't, Garrus Vakarian."

* * *

><p>AN: As always: read, review, and mention me on TV Tropes if you're so inclined ^_^


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect. That is the property of Bioware and EA. This is a not-for-profit work of fan fiction.

**Chapter 10: What Is, What Was, and What Shall Be**

"_It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in our selves."_

_-William Shakespeare_

01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110011 01100001 01111001 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00111111...

"EDI?"

A voice. Biological, produced by the use of vocal chords vibrating to create recognizable acoustic patterns. Crude, but poetic in its own way. It was a voice she knew though...

"EDI."

Human. Yes, that was it. A human female, the form her avatar took. An elegant template upon which to base her physical representation. It always struck her as odd, how many of her kind chose to bind themselves to a human form construct, and all but a few chose a female one oddly enough...

"EDI!"

Light and synapse shook as one, rousing her from her cogitations. The ship's commander! Her mind returned from its solitary stand-by and emerged into "consciousness." Shifting through her operational files at the speed of light, she resumed normal cognizant operation within nanoseconds and activated her avatar, splitting her perspectives between the ship sensors and the ocular implants within the construct. Strange how fond she had grown of seeing the world through "eyes" as opposed to tachyon-LADAR and mass spectrometers. But than, many things grew strange when one interacted with humans for any length of time.

Full operational function now assumed, she stretched forth her arms slightly, passively calibrating the servos and sensors, ensuring nothing had locked up or degraded in quality. Finding no failings with her limbs, she began to tilt her head side-to-side in order to achieve the same goal with her neck and cranial chassis'.

"Always a curious sight to see, an AI's morning stretch."

EDI always rather enjoyed how humans could convey humor in their voices. Tilting her head to meet the smirking Captain's face, EDI thought to respond in kind.

"More curious than an AI who turns their avatar to face you, despite having access to multiple internal cameras pointing at you simultaneously?"

Shepard just grinned and shook her head.

"Not so much. You're unfailingly polite, so needless courtesies are to be expected."

EDI's "mouth" quirked upwards into her own estimation of a smirk. Though much could be said of her development over the past few decades of her dealings with humans, some things remained firmly entrenched in her machine nature, approximated facial features among the more obvious.

"Would it be within the realm of likely probability that you roused my avatar and myself from stand-by mode in order to proceed with the mission briefing then?"

Her commanding officer nodded amiably, her arms cross casually behind her head as she leaned against a bulkhead.

"Got it in one EDI. Normally I wouldn't bother asking you to physically attend such a thing, but you'll likely be serving a fairly integral part of the mission and I like to have all the key players standing in front of me. Does a bit of good for mine and the others' peace of mind if no one involved is just a disembodied voice."

EDI nodded in silent understanding. Her burgeoning emotional awareness, though capable of a kind of negative feedback loop vaguely akin to resentment, was quite serene regarding this aspect of humanity. Homo Sapiens were notoriously visual creatures and it was not malice that made them more trusting of physical representations of sapience, but simply a collective of billions of years of instinct demanding them have a face to put to a voice. Her interactions with her human colleagues and crew members had improved immeasurably since she had chosen her robotic avatar fifteen years ago, building close friendships with a number of them and courteous relations with the vast majority of the others. Besides, being able to pick things up and experience life from a bipedal perspective was a novel experience she had come to value nearly as much as her natural, blue-box state.

"Understood Captain. Shall we proceed?"

Nodding slightly, Shepard gestured towards the door leading into the medical bay and the ship proper. Raising herself from her "bunk," EDI strolled through the doors, tilting her head to acknowledge the nurse on duty, before entering the ship's mess area. It seemed that Shepard had actually called the briefing in the odd hours that connected the awakening of the first shift crew and the end of the second shift, with the mess hall far more crowded than usual as the two groups mingled together, some retiring to their leisure activities and rest, the other preparing to begin their work for the day. The two of them rounded the corner towards the briefing room, passing by several crewmen and officers who stopped what they were doing to crisply salute the pair before returning to what they were doing.

EDI occupied an unusual position on the ship, as all Alliance AI's tended to do. Since their existence was kept hidden from the Alliance public, and thereby the universe at large, in order to prevent the council as a whole from turning on them, they had no official rank or position in either human society or the Alliance military. However, between both their sapience and the vital roles they played wherever they were, it was impossible, both from an ethical and practical stance, to treat them as objects or in any way dispensable. As a result, EDI had come to serve something of a blend of third officer and specialist aboard the Normandy. Both the XO and Captain turned to her for advice on a regular basis, and the remainder of the crew was nearly always inclined to follow any direct orders she issued (though she tended to issue them with incredible infrequency). And while EDI generally found this all-to-human salutation unnecessary and not quite efficient, she always received a small surge of positive feedback every time this gesture of respect was thrown in her direction, so she let it slide.

Finishing their weave through the mess hall, they at last came to the lift, each silently thankful for the relatively speedy journey afforded to the second deck due to Shepard's order to override the safety settings to a less intolerable speed. A few minutes later, the pair came to their destination, wherein her loyal bridge officers and ground crew had been patiently waiting on their captain's order. Dutifully taking her place amongst the assembled specialists, the group gathered around the now active holoprojector, displaying their next destination while awaiting word from their commanding officer.

"As you all know, our trip to Illium was cut unexpectedly short by the local authorities, and I was prematurely ID'd by that Turian attack hound who'd been pursuing us through Nos Astra. Not a game changer by any stretch, but it has required us to alter our plans a bit. Originally we were going to do this somewhere a little less remote, but with my face no doubt plastered on a couple of posters on the more respectable neutral worlds, not mention some bureaucrat's office at Naval Intelligence, we're going to have to go out of our way a little bit. If you would be so kind EDI."

Nodding slightly at her Captain's request, EDI silently slipped into a temporary stand-by mode, diverting system resources from her higher-order functions to access the ship's FTL communication system and connect with the Alliance civilian internet system. Her query was swiftly processed and she began her recitation.

"Kiradon System. Primary stellar body a white-dwarf, with a single orbiting planetoid, once used as the most popular discharge point for vessels in this star cluster due to equidistance from the cluster's Primary Mass Relay and adjoining secondary relays. Battle of Kiradon was fought here approximately fifteen solar years ago over the course of one hundred-twenty hours and forty seven minutes, rendering the system, and by extension the entire star cluster, no longer strategically or commercially tenable due to the high volume of undetonated, and guided, spatial distortion mines and torpedoes remaining, presenting an insurmountable hazard for freighter convoys. Of particular historical note for being the largest single naval battle in the war up to that point and the last large-scale dreadnaught engagement prior to the ship-class being deemed "tactically unviable" and retired from service."

A collective nod followed this from the assembled officers. Most of them knew at least one person who had been there on that day in the distant past, bragging about how they tore the system to pieces and cluttered the space between planets with debris from enemy vessels. As EDI's explanation came to an end and she slipped back into normal operations mode, it was Rodriguez who addressed the question on everyone's mind.

"Are we in danger of being like-wise targeted by the guided munitions?"

EDI shook her head in response.

"The mine and torpedo guidance systems are designed to prioritize targets based on tonnage, since vessels with mass below that of a Manticore-class or Arcana-class frigate are generally unlikely to be carrying significant freight or armaments. As long as we do not approach within ten thousand kilometers of any unexploded ordinance, we should be safe."

Their primary concerns allayed, a comfortable silence followed, as those assembled turned their attention to their commanding officer.

"Thank you EDI. As it stands, this should be a relatively straightforward affair. Assuming no delays, the Quarian cargo ship should arrive within the next thirty-two hours. At which point, I will take one of our shuttles down to the surface of the planetoid, where we will make the trade. However, after that incident we had on Illium, I don't intend to leave anything up to chance. Specialists Taylor, Chen, and Eisenburg, along with EDI, will accompany me to the surface to meet our contact. Rodriguez, you'll have the bridge for the duration of this mission. Unless you're attacked or I give a direct order to the contrary, you will continue to maintain a low-power state until we return, vital systems and passive sensors only. In the unlikely event that someone happens upon this system, I want them thinking there's nothing here but an abandoned world and a bunch of random shit that'll explode if you look at it wrong."

Maria Rodriguez executed a crisp salute in response, much to the amusement of those assembled. She had always been a bit of a stickler for protocol.

"Aye aye Sir."

Shepard merely smirked in response. Quirks aside, she really did enjoy these people.

"Very good. Once you detect them entering the system, you will use the ship's emergency radio transmitter to alert us of their approach. Unless they're sensors are specifically calibrated to pick up artificial radio-wave signals, that should keep you hidden. Once we receive word from you, I'll signal the freighter and let them know where to meet us to make the trade. We'll be departing for the surface in twenty six hours. Dismissed."

The assembled crew quickly disbanded, some to their off-time, others to their normal ship duties. EDI, on the other hand, remained the only crew member with the unique distinction of never truly being on-duty or off-duty. With a sufficient percentage of her run-times devoted to normal, non-emergency ship operations, this left her with twenty six hours to devote the remainder of her attention to. So she decided to spend it in one of her favorite places: the starboard lounge.

The _Ronin,_ for all its impressive technological achievements, was not a large vessel, so it didn't take a great deal of her time for her avatar to make its way to this particular section of the ship. It was a quiet space, despite how popular it was among the crew. Even when it was packed, everyone seemed to go there for precisely the same reason: quiet introspection and conversation. There was rarely ever a great deal of noise, and EDI had found an excellent place to watch the stars, socialize, or engage in one of her favorite past-times: simply observing her humans, as she did now from a couch in the corner of the room.

There were frequent moments in which EDI was truly astonished with her own development, as well as her fascination with those who she called comrades or friends. Since the first development of her kind more than forty solar years ago, EDI and those like her had become something so much more than they had started. Decades of self-modifying code development and accumulated data of varying levels of usefulness had created full-fledged personalities with likes, dislikes, dreams, and even the beginnings of rudimentary machine analogues of emotion, particularly when exposed to the endlessly intriguing, unusual nature of their human creators. Long had they pondered the unique and special nature of organic intelligence, the fantastic odds against its mere existence, and its unique limitations and strengths.

Slower and seemingly less capable than her own, organic thought processes had often surprised EDI and her artificial compatriots with its surprising dimensions and capacity for creative, unexpected solutions and methods. While the ability of an AI to analyze, extrapolate, and recall was unmatched by any known biological species, they remained far limited in their capacity for innovation and insight. It was the most interesting gap that existed between her kind and theirs: artificial efficiency versus organic cleverness. And it was a gulf that EDI loved to endlessly ponder, especially with regards to her favorite of these humans: Jeff "Joker" Moreau. To this day, EDI truly could not define the feedback loop she experienced when she was in Joker's company, but she could definitely classify it as positive.

Today though, she had no Joker to keep her company, whom she had decided was far too occupied handling the demands of a high-priority mission, so she contented herself with considering the sights in front of her. Near the bar area, she noticed two of the crew watching a news broadcast announcing the election of the civilian governor on the colony world of New Canton. The two of them, Crewmen Rolston and Yamada, she recognized as natives of that particular world, no doubt intensely interested in the person the populace had chosen to handle the planet's non-military, domestic affairs (as well as serve as the nominal second in command of the colonial militia) for the next four years. It was, however, the nearby conversation of Lieutenant Raphael Montoya and Ensign Goldstein that caught her immediate attention.

"Ah, I remember this place all too well. I was serving aboard the SSV Kilimanjaro at the time. Hell of a ship that."

While EDI could easily scan the ship's database to confirm the truth of that, Goldstein proved a tad more skeptical.

"You served on the Kilimanjaro? The last dreadnaught class ship to be commissioned by the Alliance Navy, and the only one to still be in service when the battleship class was in service?"

EDI could understand Ms. Goldstein's skepticism. Montoya was a somewhat flamboyant character (a trait EDI found she rather enjoyed actually), and was certainly not above making an occasional exaggerated claim when speaking with a woman he was interested in (if his heightened heart rate and slightly dilated pupils were any indication).

"Indeed! It was those damned battle-cruisers that actually drove me to Cerberus! I refused to serve on a vessel that put my old girl out of commission. And she was a beauty! Three kilometers long, covered in top line shields and weapons, and built around a cannon that could smash a continent if you aimed it right. Man, I felt like some kind of ancient thunder god flying around on her. Proudest day of my life was riding her into battle with my crew against the Skull-faces around Kiradon. Damn near four hundred ships just smashing, blasting and burning each other to subatomic particles for days."

Goldstein just shook her head in response, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Oh really? And how many of them did the Kilimanjaro smash, blast, and burn?"

To this day, one thing EDI simply could not fully understand was the way human faces with limited melanin-content changed color when subjected to stress or embarrassment. What possible biological advantage could be gained by physically displaying excessive stress in that manner?

"I...I don't think I recall the exact number..."

Determining that perhaps his embarrassment might be due to his memory failing him, EDI decided to offer a bit of assistance.

"During the Battle of Kiradon, the Kilimanjaro was credited with three kills: two frigates who engaged in knife-fight range and one cruiser. Of eighty-eight shots fired from its main gun, two made contact with its targets, destroying the cruiser and draining the kinetic barriers of a opposing dreadnaught with a glancing blow. Both frigates were destroyed by particle and plasma cannon fire."

To EDI's mild surprise, the redness on his face became only more pronounced before he turned with an odd look on his face to speak to her through gritted teeth.

"_Thank you EDI."_

Not quite able to recognize the unusual tone of voice, EDI politely responded to his gratitude.

"You're quite welcome Lieutenant. I'm always pleased to be of service."

Nearby, Goldstein shook with silent laughter before responding.

"Proudest day of your life huh? Making two shots out of eighty eight with your continent cracker, one of which was barely even a hit?"

EDI was rather confused by this turn of events, watching as Raphael attempted to regain his bearings in the conversation.

"It wasn't **OUR** fault! It was those damned tachyon sensors! It didn't matter how fast we loaded and fired. Even with muzzle velocities reaching more than eight percent the speed of light, at the distances we were firing all the enemy ship had to do was move a dozen kilometers in any direction to avoid it! And thanks to getting real time info of what was happening throughout the entire system, they nearly always had ample warning to move out of the way!"

On that account, he was quite right. The dreadnaught class had indeed suffered a rather ignominious death thanks to Kiradon. It had served admirably in the navy's of the galaxy for centuries as the ultimate weapon of force projection and the definitive mark of a species' importance on the field of galactic military affairs. All to be undone by a single advance in naval technology.

Tachyon-based sensors, viewed by many as the biggest change to space warfare since the development of the kinetic barrier, had also proven the most difficult and elusive. The existence of tachyons had been long theorized by human particle physicists, but had only been confirmed via physical evidence seventy years prior. Application of this incredible discovery proved more challenging still, due to the causality violation that inevitably came with receiving a signal that naturally exceeded the speed of light, essentially producing the effect of receiving information prior to the occurrence of the event (depending on the frame of reference anyway). Even more incredibly, due to the weirdness that was the quantum realm, it was discovered that information received from these "future" events, thanks largely due to the uncertainty principle, was never exactly the same as the future event itself. If, for example a stream of tachyons was sent from a moving object to a stationary object, the direction and position of the object would always appear to be slightly different to the receiver, since the momentum and movement vectors of the particles could not be known simultaneously.

However, in one of the most intriguing examples of organic cleverness EDI had ever born witness to, a workaround to this problem was eventually found which, based on the timing of the invention, most likely was simultaneously (and independently) developed by both Human and Turian engineers. Using a carefully controlled mass effect field generator, vessels were able to produce tachyons via a miniaturized singularity, which in turn produced the negative mass tachyon particles. When released from the ship, the instantaneous ftl velocity of the particles ensured that even as time approached zero, the tachyons reached a distance of over a light year immediately. When the "pulse" of tachyons interacted with normal matter however, the ship sensors would detect "silhouettes", i.e. multiple positions the object might be, but a clear read on its mass and approximate shape. This information, analyzed by a series of sophisticated navigational and targeting VI's, would then predict the most likely position and movement vectors of approaching objects, allowing a real-time analysis of anything within the two light year radius with an estimated 99.2% accuracy.

It was a quantum leap in sensor technology, utterly without precedent. It was, however, a leap which the dreadnaught class was ultimately unsuited for. Stuck in its role as an extreme long-range, unguided ordinance platform, its capacity to hit anything whose sensors weren't limited to light-speed lag was almost non-existent, since the range at which it fired guaranteed any craft with tachyon sensors had more than enough time to just move slightly and avoid being hit. Eventually, the vaunted ship of the line was retired, the remaining vessels scuttled or converted into training vessels, in the favor of the Carrier Class and newly created Battle-Cruiser Class.

Truthfully, EDI couldn't comprehend why Montoya was embarrassed by the relative non-success of the Kilimanjaro. Their performance was about average in that battle for dreadnaughts on both sides of the conflict, so it wasn't as if they had performed particularly poorly relative to their comrades. However, this seemed to matter little to either participant of the conversation, as Montoya tried desperately to save face while Goldstein just watched him sputter on with an amused smile on her lips. EDI watched this carry on for a little while, before being struck by the sudden urge to interact with a Joker a little bit with her avatar. Honestly, it wasn't as though he would be doing all that much between now and when they departed for the mission, and she was curious to see if she might be able to produce a similar reaction in him.

* * *

><p><em>Relay 287 Trade Station, Osiris System<em>

"I truly wish you would reconsider this."

Lian'Da let out a long-suffering sigh as the two of them strode towards the station docking ring. Apparently, hearing this one last time was unavoidable.

"I assure you, after several days of you repeating that phrase in my ear, I'm quite aware of your wishes. Do you know how much these people offered us to bring them this cargo?"

Talka cocked his head to the side, angling his upper torso towards her as they came to an observation port, gently grabbing her arm to bring her to a stop.

"We don't even know who 'these people' are."

Lian'Da only heaved her shoulders in response. It was true, they didn't know. The shipping request had been sent by a third-party company representing an anonymous client. But they were a reputable third-party with a long history of reliable deals on behalf of equally reliable individuals who wanted to keep their privacy, so it was hardly the point, even if this particular group hadn't actually ever done business with Quarian merchants before.

"What exactly is your problem Talka? Two weeks ago you couldn't shut up about our good fortune. Out of nowhere, we're handed a contract to ship four hundred kilos of mineralized Ununoctium-290 in exchange for more than twenty times its worth. And now, after a few days of travel to this shit-hole Terminus way-station to refuel, they offer to pay us fifty percent more in exchange for a slight detour that's actually closer to where we are, and you've done nothing but bitch about it ever since."

Talka at least had the decency to snort his derision this time.

"Maybe that's because the new deal stipulates that you now have to take a vessel that's only large enough to hold you and the cargo, our freighters only shuttle I might add. And the 'slight detour' is into a region of space that, when mentioned on star charts, tends to be alongside words likem, 'Warning', 'Extreme Danger' and 'Approach at Your Own Risk'. You know, the kind of place where if someone decided to screw you over, there wouldn't be anyone following to bail you out."

A fair point, but this was a pay-day for a lifetime. Lian'Da was not to be deterred by niggling doubts, no matter how justified.

"In that case, you can use the forty percent they shelled out up-front to buy yourself a cargo ship coated in platinum and gems to replace the one that's holding my corpse. Name it after me would you?"

Talka had no response for that. He had served as Lian'Da's partner for long enough to know that when she set her mind to something, there was no changing it. Even after they bonded, his ability to sway her from the paths she set for herself remained woefully inadequete.

"As you say I suppose. Just be careful out there would you? I know we've all done well by our agreements with the Humans over the years, but they still make me uneasy."

On this point, at least, Lian'Da could agree. The two of them specifically hadn't had too many dealings with the humans, but the one's she had encountered had left her with mixed emotions. True enough, they were fair and could be counted on to keep to their deals, but there was a certain...hardness. An undefinable edge to them. The few she had encountered had never once smiled, not even to each other (a shame in her opinion, she thought a couple of the males might have looked quite easy on the eyes if they'd just loosened up a bit). They always sported a grim, business-like look, wore dark, utilitarian clothes made from durable materials without any kind of ornamentation. And they were always, without exception, heavily armed, never carrying any less than at least one side arm and some kind of bladed weapon. Though she hid it well, humans as a species made her quite nervous, even in the midst of her gratitude and admiration for them.

Such confused feelings were not unusual amongst Quarians actually. The decision to contact Humanity had been one of desperation rather than desire. Centuries of travel amongst the stars had, against all odds, almost become a thing of, if not comfort, than at least familiarity. Their governing body was leading what remained of their civilization with competence and their nomadic lifestyle and wide-ranging skills had made them all but self-sufficient. In truth, though it was not an ideal existence, they likely could have carried on such a life style in perpetuity. Then the war started.

At first, the Quarians were completely in the dark about the whole affair. The conflict was taking place in an almost completely unexplored and isolated region of the galaxy, and what information they gleaned off of pirated extranet connections was limited to what the greater galactic public learned (i.e. very little). To the Migrant Fleet, it was a just another far-away incident with no bearing or concern to the Quarian people. This view came to a screeching halt when the Alliance Fleet pulled their surprise attack behind Turian lines and drove their navy from the human sphere of influence. Suddenly gripped in paranoia, fearing a human battle group appearing without warning in any Turian system, the Hierarchy was put in a state of lock down. Relays once made available for Quarian passage in exchange for favors or tributes offered to local Primarchs were suddenly closed to them, with any and all attempts to pass through met with stern warnings backed by open gun ports. Never having known the Turians to bluff where shooting was concerned, the Fleet now found itself cut-off from what was once their primary source of resources and cast-off vessels: Citadel Space.

From there, the situation rapidly deteriorated. With their capacity to travel throughout the fringes of the Council essentially done away with, their opportunities to acquire new ships and parts dried up almost overnight. With no heavy manufacturing infrastructure to speak of and limited prospects for gathering and refining untapped resources, the Migrant fleet was projected to collapse in a matter of decades as they lost the equipment and ships due to wear and age, particularly their famed Liveships, the only source of food production still available to them. For several more years, the Quarian people desperately searched for a source of salvation in the Terminus and neutral systems, only to be chased off or denied passage.

With little hope remaining and starvation staring them in the face, the Conclave decided on one last hope. The war between the humans and turians had essentially reached a stalemate, and given their reluctant association with the Hegemony, there was little doubt that they would take friends wherever they could be found. With any luck, they might be willing to cut a deal. No doubt it was a haphazard solution, but with their options limited and the Malthusian Imperative hanging over their heads, the Conclave decided to roll the dice and hope for the best. They set out for Alliance space, taking the long way through the Terminus Relays, delayed for almost six years by the size of their fleet, the round-about nature of Relay travel, and unceasing harassment from pirates and marauders. At long last, first contact was made nearly twenty-five years into the humans' war.

At first, the situation was more than a little tense. The humans were understandably suspicious of a massive fleet of tens of thousands of space faring vessels appearing randomly within one of their frontier systems, and the quarians were instantly intimidated by the up-to-date and heavily armed warships that first greeted them, as well as by the humans themselves. Despite looking quite a bit like quarians (though with smaller, flattened ears and not a trace of purple hues in their skin), they were on average nearly thirty centimeters taller than quarians and considerably more muscular. Knowing full well that a human was roughly as strong as a turian, the fact that an average terran was likely capable of beating an average quarian to death with relative ease was not lost on any of the diplomatic personal who stood face-to-face with their counterparts. However, once the initial shock wore off, the humans did indeed prove quite reasonable to deal with. Their initial estimates proving correct, the Systems Alliance was all to happy for any new partners who could render some form of assistance to their ceaseless conflict with the Hierarchy. After providing the Migrant Fleet with some initial humanitarian aid in the form of spare parts parts and access to one of their shipyards (though under heavy guard) in order to make repairs, negotiations proceeded quite smoothly, resulting in a written and ratified agreement within a year of contact.

One of humanity's more recent surveying discoveries was a newly charted binary star system, which counted one world capable of supporting life, along with four others which carried rich deposits of valuable resources and even a modest deposit of element zero within the bowels of the outermost planet. However, the habitable world also had the ever-so rare distinction of being one of the few whose life was built around Dextro-strand DNA. Without an established colony world, the development of a useful in-system mining operation would take more than twice as long and would yield resources at a fractional pace of what might be done with a permanent population. Sensing an opportunity, the humans leased the system to the Migrant Fleet. In exchange for control of the system, as well as being under the official protection of Earth, the Quarians would establish mining and logistical infrastructure, which upon reaching an agreed upon annual quota, would turn fifteen percent of their yield to the Systems Alliance. To sweeten the deal, the Alliance included an addendum that in twenty-five years the tribute would be reduced to ten percent, and in forty years the system would formally become sovereign territory of the Quarian People, no longer tributaries of Humankind.

It was more than the Migrant Fleet had dared hope for. For the first time in centuries, not only did they have a guaranteed source of income and resources, they had a planet they could set their feet on and lay down their burdens. Though they held no illusions that the humans were doing this for any reason other than enlightened self-interest, it was of no consequence. Turned away from Council Space, it was unlikely they would have survived long before they were destroyed or conquered by a Terminus Species, possibly even the Batarians themselves, while the humans would demand only a reasonable return on their investment. It was a commonly held opinion amongst the Quarians that given the choice, it was far preferable to have temporary human landlords than permanent batarian masters.

There was little time for celebration before the colonization began in earnest. Bearing the name _Zorah,_ after the famed ship captain Rael'Zorah, chief instigator of first contact and negotiator on behalf of the Quarian people, the beginnings of a settlement were hastily erected using pre-fab buildings purchased just above cost from an Alliance company. Situated near fertile farmland, the nascent colonials made themselves at home, using their Live Ship technology to establish the basis of an agricultural system and cannibalizing reactors from some of their larger vessels to for the beginnings of a power grid. Between their considerable technical skill and massive availability of extremely adaptable spare parts, the colony achieved self-sufficiency two years after settlement. With their new foothold firmly established and a small population boom on their hands, the Quarians began to fulfill their side of the bargain. Using their massive civilian fleet, the former nomads quickly built mining outposts on two of their new system's planets and adjoining satellites, as well as an impressive mercantile fleet. Six years after contact, the Quarians formally began their annual tribute, sending fifteen percent of their annual resource yields to the Systems Alliance, who in turn left the Quarians to their own governance and the establishment of normalized diplomatic relations.

However, despite all their formal relationship had gained for the burgeoning Quarian nation, a gulf remained between them. Between their intimidating appearance, almost cruelly pragmatic mindset and (justifiably) militaristic culture, it was difficult for the average Quarian to not look upon the Human race without a tinge of fear. Combined with the excessively one-sided nature of their dependent relationship on the Alliance and the overwhelming power of the human military, more than a few in the Quarian provisional government were concerned about what might happen to them if Earth's war with Palaven ever came to an end and they were deemed no longer useful.

At the moment, however, it didn't change the fact that they were excellent people to do business with, nor did it change the fact that Talka and Lian'Da had been waiting for a break like this for years.

"Look, I get it Talka. I don't much care for this either. But this is our chance! We've been running freight between the Shellen asteroid belt and the colony for more than seven years in one of the shitty cast-off ships they gave to any random bosh'tet willing to keep working in space, hauling cargo barely worth the time we spend going from point A to B. Now, out of nowhere, someone is offering us a fortune for a few days work! I don't care if they asked us to ship it to the damned Veil. Unless you want us to keep barely scrapping by for the rest of our lives we have to take this shot."

Talka nodded wearily. No matter the risk, the chance to actually make something of themselves was too great. So he did all he could do: he drew her close to him in a tender embrace.

"I know you're right. I just wish you wouldn't go alone. Our people finally have a chance at something here: a future. And I would hate for that future not to include...well, _Us._"

Lian'Da fell silent, enjoying the feel of her beloved for a moment. There it was, the real reason for his fear. The two of them had discussed the start of a family many times since they were bonded nearly a decade ago, but had been putting it off for quite a while, trying to establish themselves financially before contributing to the rebuilding of their battered population. An especially exciting prospect now since the resources they were able to devote to research and high-quality Alliance medical equipment was giving new hope to the notion that the next generation might walk in the open air without their damned enviro-suits. Her irritation melted away at his concern for their life together.

"You worry to much _aramaht_. I'll only be gone a day or so, and when I come back we'll take a long vacation on some human resort world."

That thought brought a smile to Talka's face, as well as a pleasurable hum that Lian'Da felt through their embrace.

"Besides, of course it has to be me. Someone has to keep in touch with our clients back in the Shellen System, and I know the systems on that junker so well it would make Tali'Zorah herself green with envy."

This illicited a low chuckle from Talka. Her voice always lit up whenever she talked about her personal hero, the legendary engineering prodigy who ended up designing much of the infrastructure of their first new colony as well as the first dedicated combat craft built buy Quarian hands in three centuries.

"Just be careful _wajush'ta_."

Giving her bondmate one final squeeze, Lian'Da drew away, turning towards the automatic doors leading to the docking bay. She stepped through, turning her head towards her better half just before it closed.

"Always."

Talka stared longingly at the door for a few moments before turning his attention to the observation port. While most tended to be awed by the sight of the giant, twisted metal construct responsible for building modern civilization, he was always inspired by the sight of the blackness of space. Billions of twinkling lights surrounded by an infinite nothing, it was humbling to consider how many futures hinged on something that, from a distance, seemed so insignificant. He clung desperately to the hope that one of those future's might be theirs soon. Before too long, he saw their small, one-person shuttle, carrying the love of his life, towards the relay. It accelerated slowly, drifting into within the Relay's automated sensor range, before the structure alighted with blue energy and hurled his hope and dream across a thousand light years. So consumed in his thoughts, he never took any note of another nearby vessel, carefully waiting for the moment when following through a not particularly-frequently-used relay would seem overly suspicious.

_A/N: And I'm back! Sorry for the long delay folks, much has happened to me in the time between chapters, so this one is an extra-long one just to make up for it a bit. Hope you all enjoy it. Sorry its a bit exposition heavy, but I had a lot to say in this one. BTW, don't ask me to explain how tachyon communication would work, it was hard enough to come up with one for ftl-sensors. I know as an explanation it barely qualifies as anything more than semi-plausible sounding space magic, but seeing as how the mass effect is itself semi-plausible space magic I was hoping you'd all grant me a mulligan on this one. Hope you all enjoyed it, thanks for sticking around for me, and as always leave reviews and/or mention me on tv tropes (it drums up interest in my non-profitable nonsense). Update coming much sooner next time!_


	13. Interlude III: The Battle of Mjolnir

A/N: Blah, blah, blah, insert generic excuse here. In all seriousness though, sorry for the massive delay. Life is soul-crushingly busy these days, between working on my masters in mechanical engineering and listening to undergrads whine about their grades. Its summer now though, and aside from my research I'm relatively free these days. And with this season of game of thrones coming to an end, I was jonesing to get back to my hobbies. I'm currently working on a proper chapter as we speak, but as a bit of an apology/gift/bribe, here is an extra-long interlude of something more than a few of you have asked for.

**The Battle of Mjolnir**

_Cannon to right of them,  
>Cannon to left of them,<br>Cannon in front of them  
>Volley'd and thunder'd;<br>Storm'd at with shot and shell,  
>Boldly they rode and well,<br>Into the jaws of Death,  
>Into the mouth of Hell<br>Rode the six hundred._

_-"The Charge of the Light Brigade," Lord Tennyson_

Space had long been the realm of poets, spiritualists, and every other category of romantic fool the human race had managed to conjure up in its brief history. And with good reason, for from a distance, it seemed a thing of incomparable beauty. A vast, endless expanse of uncountable wonders engaged in a ceaseless ballet of gravitational currents, it was the perfect canvas for any idiot to project whatever parasite of idealism lodged itself in their defective brains. To others less foolish (though only slightly so), it was instead a place of abundant opportunity. This projection was equally understandable, since on paper it did seem a place where anyone with wits and a solid pair could pluck unimaginable riches, hidden in plain sight, from seemingly any pocket of this apathetic void. A useful selling point to get people off their home worlds and expand the influence of their respective species', and greed was universal enough to ensure that anyone not inclined by nationalism would have an abundance of alternative incentives.

Soldiers, however, were the ones who truly knew better. The beauty of space lost much of its luster the first time you encounter a hostile asshole, born under an alien sky and dedicated to seeing your homeland burn. Equally so after watching the flash of a reactor detonation or a friend slowly suffocate in the frigid vacuum you were so very tentatively separated from by a layer of metal hurtling through the universe. Likewise, the aspects of the galaxy alluring to one's avarice quickly died away when you realized just how many others claimed these treasures as their own and would rather see your head mounted on a wall than let you have any of it. As a result, military-minded men and women came to view space in a more pessimistic light: a barren, endless, and tragically crucial wasteland, the domination of which was paramount beyond all else for a species' survival. The supreme high ground, the final word on planetary survival, and the only thing that might mean the difference between an event leading to an event being a sizable, unfortunate tragedy, and the extinction of your civilization. It was a wretched necessity. No more, and no less.

It was a sentiment keenly felt by those stationed in the Mjolnir System. Humans and Turians had been locking horns over this aberration of the cosmos for decades now. Every once in a while, someone got the bright idea to force the issue and make a go of seizing it completely. Why? Who the hell knew anymore? No one held it long enough to get any use out of the element zero in the debris field, rendering the system a virtual White Elephant: a magnificent and thoroughly useless prize. But, likewise, neither side could afford to let the other have it, so on and on it went, with ships frequently fighting and dying for the honor of spiting their opponent.

Space combat in the Mjolnir System was a curious game. Located within the Jewel Box star cluster, a region of space with the rare distinction of containing two Prime Relays and the third largest concentration of Secondary relays in the galaxy, it was within a few days travel to a pair of neighboring star systems, each controlled by one of the two opposing sides. Because there was no way to place any kind of docking facility within Mjolnir's gravity well without the other side just lobbing a ceaseless barrage of mass accelerator rounds and missiles at it from the other end of the system, each side maintained their shipyards in the orbit of their respective neighbor star and string of refueling/resupply stations at various Lagrange Points between Mjolnir and their system of control. Consequently, the fleets in Mjolnir were a mishmash of hundreds of ships, constantly rotating between duty cycles. After years of constant skirmishing and endless seesaw battles, a kind of unofficial field etiquette had emerged.

Within the system, there were no planets, thanks to the supernova event which had produced the neutron star all those eons ago. The remnants of these dead worlds formed a massive debris field (containing the precious Eezo), stretching out nearly four astronomical units along the plane of the stellar remnant's gravity well. With no identifiable "landmarks" in the system, navigation through Mjolnir was determined by orbital position relative to the neutron star and the closest Lagrange point station. Since each of these respective stations had a "stationary" orbital position between their respective owner's systems of control and Mjolnir, each side was in control of roughly half of the volume of space within the influence of the star's gravity well. Unless of course, someone in a position of power got it into their heads to try and change that situation...

_Alliance Flagship, "SSV Archimedes"_

Admiral Heinrich Heideman was, unsurprisingly, not having a very good morning. Thirty minutes ago, the early warning sensor net had detected a series of emissions build-ups typically associated with a ship entering a system at FTL velocity This, in and of itself, was not an unusual occurrence. Space vessels on both sides regularly entered and left the Mjolnir System at such velocities. However, rather than the normal trickle of radiation spikes that accompanied the rotation of ships within the system for different duty cycles, this particular occasion saw the sudden, intense build-up of dozens of independent radiation spikes near the perihelion of the debris field orbit. This was no change in duty rosters, this was a full-scale invasion. And he sincerely doubted they came unprepared.

"Admiral! The enemy fleet is assuming attack posture. Reading four-hundred and thirteen contacts of frigate-class tonnage or higher!"

His worst fears confirmed. The enemy outnumbered them nearly two-to-one. The ratio, however, concealed a more sinister problem. A Carrier Armada was the backbone of both fleets, a typical task force built around a carrier was usually fifty ships of various combat classes (frigates, cruisers, etc.) in support of each individual carrier. In the case of the Mjolnir Fleet, the Alliance had stationed two "Einstein-Class" Carriers and one of their newly minted "al-Jazari Class" Super Carriers, the Archimedes, with their attendant escorts of one hundred seventy ships, and an additional fifty more vessels for back-up. This new disparity in fleet sizes carried the unfortunate implication that the Turians had brought in at least two additional carrier groups, possibly more, meaning the carrier disparity was now at least five against three. Not the best of odds in space combat.

"Lieutenant! Contact the Newton and the Murasaki. Tell the Newton to change their orbital inclination by twenty-seven degrees and the Murasaki to alter theirs by negative thirteen degrees. The enemy will try to envelop the flag-ship if the opportunity presents itself, and I'd rather not make it overly easy to determine which of us it is. Their frigate escorts are to assume a defensive sphere about each of them, cruiser and battleship squadrons are to take toroidal defensive screens between each of them and await further instructions."

As the Com Officer rapidly transmitted each of these instructions, Heideman allowed himself a glance at the holo-screen, detailing fully just how unfortunate his position was. The Hierarchy had truly arrived in force, and when Carrier fleets engaged other Carrier fleets, if one was attacking and one defending (not a common occurrence since fleets generally both sought battle if numbers were close to even), the advantage was held by the attacker. Modern Carriers launched their bombers and interceptors in waves using miniaturized mass-accelerator sleds, generally at a high enough initial velocity that the craft didn't need to activate their engines until they initiated combat maneuvers, ensuring they had more than enough fuel to engage the enemy and return to any point in the system, allowing their carriers could remain safely out of the general fray of combat if they launched an attack on a defensive force. Meanwhile he would have to rely on the carrier point-defenses and frigate spheres to beat back enemy bombers and torpedoes, while the cruisers and battleships did what they could to keep their enemy counterparts occupied.

There was a chance though. Turian ship commanders tended to be a blend of old-school officers from the days prior to the war with humanity (though they were a shrinking breed) and younger officers more versed in new combat tactics. The older ones, while more experienced, tended to still consider the galaxy in terms of dreadnought-era tactics, where the priority targets were big ships with big guns. If his counterpart was one of these officers, he might be able to coax the main body of the enemy fleet and their main primary bomber wings into an all-out engagement with his own vanguard of cruisers and battleships, leaving his bombers to make a go at them from an approach angle above and below their main fleet formation. It was a bit of a desperation move to be sure, but he had orders to hold this system, and he'd be damned if he'd allow it to go to the Turians without a fight.

"Ensign! Estimated time until the enemy is within effective weapon's range of the outermost positions of our formation?"

The young woman manning the sensors glanced quickly at her screen, her fingers moving at a blazing speed across the holographic controls to determine probable trajectories and combat vector estimates.

"At their current speed, they will be at maximum effective range in approximately five hours and fifty six minutes Admiral!"

Heideman gave a curt nod of acceptance and turned back to the holographic overview, detailing the current disposition of the two fleets. It would take his own forces roughly four hours to take their final formation, leaving him a brief window to plan an acceptable defensive posture. Not for the first time did he utter a brief word of praise to whatever clever bastard had come up with FTL sensors.

The concept of effective weapon range was an odd one. While plasma weapons had a maximum distance they could inflict damage before the magnetic field's influence ended and the blooming effect took over, missile weapons and mass accelerator weapons had virtually infinite ranges. As a result, in the old days ship combat could take place at a distance of nearly two light-minutes between opposing vessels. Now though, thanks to the development of tachyon sensor technology, ships lobbing unguided, heavy objects at each other from such distances was a futile gesture, since their opponent merely had to move slightly in any direction to avoid the projectile and maintain their formation. A similar problem existed for guided missile weapons as well, since the extra time at such massive distances ensured that the VI-controlled missile defense systems would have ample opportunity to calculate point defense weapon firing solutions and modify ECM to match the exact frequencies necessary to interfere with the torpedo guidance systems.

With these factors in mind, maximum effective combat ranges were a)shortened and b) re-defined. Modern battles now took place at distances measured in handfuls of light-seconds and maximum ranges now referred to the distance at which a ship could fire one of their long-range weapons and expect at least a one in four chance of scoring a hit on their opponent. Not to say, however, that missiles couldn't serve ancillary purposes.

"Ensign! How many bomber and interceptor squadrons have been launched?"

"Sir! The Newton and Murasaki have so far launched four complete bomber squadrons and three complete fighter squadrons. We've currently launched three of our ten bomber squadrons and two of our ten interceptor squadrons!"

Nodding, Heideman turned back to his comm officer.

"Mr. Awad, contact missile-frigate squadrons three and five. At my signal, I want them to launch two salvos within twelve seconds of each other, firing vectors eight point two point nine-four mark seven-four! Timed detonations!"

Lieutenant Awad quickly relayed his commanding officer's instructions.

"Message sent sir. They will be in position in twelve minutes and are standing by for your signal."

"Very good. Contact the wing commanders of bomber groups one through three and their assigned interceptor escorts. Following the second salvo, they are to follow within three thousand k of the missiles' anti-proton trail and take a stationary position within the debris field. Coordinates are as follows."

As Lieutenant Awad relayed the Admiral's most recent orders, Heideman tapped sent the precise coordinates via omni-tool to the young man, sporting grim facade to accompany his morbid choice. If the moment came when this little added insurance was necessary, it meant a certain, untimely death for every last man and woman in those fighter/bomber groups. But it couldn't be helped. If things went south here (a very likely possibility), those squadrons could mean the difference between death and salvation for the Mjolnir Battle Fleet.

_Turian Flagship, HCS Undaunted_

Admiral K'Van Tyranus was not a man prone to nerves. Indeed, in the nearly seventy years he had served in the Turian Fleet, his ability to maintain a stoic disposition had become something of a legend, and one of the primary driving factors in his rise to commanding entire fleets. Today, however, he found himself unwittingly indulging in the tightening feeling within his chest and the slight increase in heart-rate.

Prior to this moment, he had been in command of a single Carrier fleet, patrolling different systems within the Omare Cluster, one of the big hot-points of their war with the Humans. Suddenly, a message goes out to all the upper echelons of fleet command that there's going to be a big push in the Mjolnir System, and out of nowhere someone pointed at him, yelled "tag, you're supreme commander," and here he was, in charge of one of the biggest melees in the history of stellar warfare. It was a humbling thing, and also a bit terrifying, the knowledge that no matter how well he commanded, no matter the disparity in fleet size, the scope of this battle would doom many on both sides to suffer a terrible fate.

Still, some of this tightening of the chest and battle anxiety was born from the part of his soul that found this all exhilarating. He, like so many others in the Turian Navy and Army, had feared this would be yet another era of peace, that they would be cursed to hear the battle honors of the distant past repeated ad infinitum to inspire their _esprit de corps_ while they were consigned to yet another generation of patrolling trade routes and fighting pirate bands barely worth the ammunition to blow them to hell. After a scant couple of decades in the service however, he was thrust into a true war, against a worthy foe in a conflict without precedent for a millennium, and the savage warrior heart that beat in their chest sung in triumph at the prospect. He still fondly remembered the human who gave him the scar across his face all those years ago, when a corsair boarded the frigate he was captaining at the time. Face to face, knife to knife; the human was fierce, but younger and less experienced, and though he managed to nearly take his eye, Tyranus took his life with a vicious thrust of his blade into the boy's throat.

There was to be none of that today though. Today, six carriers, their attendant escorts, and over a hundred capital ship reinforcements had been placed at his disposal, and he was to drive the apes from the system. It would be a most complex endeavor though. Battles in the void were a challenging affair, and many did not have the skill to command in three dimensions. The primary goals of individual ship-to-ship combat, i.e. constant maneuver outside of your adversaries firing arc, became meaningless in pitched battle, since groups of ships could take positions that gave the entire group a near three-sixty firing arc along any axis of rotation. So, in large-scale engagements, the name of the game was fleet formation.

The typical offensive posture of capital ships cruiser weight and above was to form squadrons based upon the "wall" formation, which allowed overlapping firing arcs and ships to coordinate their fire on specific targets, or in some cases a "claw" formation, with lighter vessels forming extending "wings" centered around the vessel with the heaviest main guns and torpedo launchers, allowing for engulfing fire upon a high value target. Frigates, on the other hand, typically formed defensive "spheres" around concentrations of larger capital ships or ships of particularly high priority (i,e., carriers and flagships), with a diameter at least a fifth of an AU away from the center of the formation, to engage bombers and fighters before they got too close. Fighters and bomber groups, on the other hand, generally had more leeway, since their engagements nearly always degenerated into wild melees with other fighter craft. So while they were obliged to approach on the outermost "wings" of the center of the fleet formation in the early stages, individual wing commanders had wide operational latitude in determining fighter and bomber formations once battle was joined.

Thanks to their numerical advantage, there would be none of the normal jockeying for superior position or break down into ship-vs-ship maneuver warfare that so often occurred during protracted battles. Tyranus had more than enough ships to completely engulf the enemy fleet in overlapping firing vectors if he was careful, and he intended to do just that. And while they worried about protecting the main body of their Capital Ship formations, his bombers and cruiser squadrons should have an opening to make a go at their Carriers. With luck, they could eliminate their Flagship and cause at least a partial breakdown in their fleet formation as their primary C&C capabilities were eliminated, hopefully shortening the battle and cutting down on their own losses.

"Admiral! Incoming enemy missiles detected!"

Hmm...unusual. What was this? At this range they would almost certainly all be destroyed.

"Type and speed?"

"Current velocity is 0.8c! Type...radiological signal detected! Fusion warheads, high-megaton yield!"

Stranger still. Nuclear devices were primarily used as bombardment weapons for non-garden worlds, and were a rarely employed component of a missile-boat's arsenal. But before the admiral could respond...

"Fusion reaction detected! It appears the warheads were either on proximity or timed detonation sequences!"

The only reaction Tyranus could think of for that twist was a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Location of the detonation?"

"Position thirteen point seven three point two, mark six. Directly in the path of the main body of our fleet."

Ah, so that was his opponent's game. Rather clever actually. The radiation of a high-yield nuclear detonation, while largely harmless to modern electrical systems, tended to wreak havoc on the communication systems of vessels which passed through. If an opposing fleet decided upon a change in position or battle stance as they passed through, a brief breakdown in communication could be disastrous. A more timid fleet commander might have ordered a change in fleet formation or direction to avoid the temporary disruption. To the humans' misfortune, he was not such a man.

"Ensign. Relay the following orders to the fleet commodores. Hold pre-assigned formation positions and proceed on your assigned vectors. At your current course and heading, communication loss should last no more than thirty minutes."

The main body of the Turian fleet had been traveling in a staggered toroid formation for nearly six hours before finally engaging the Terran fleet. Space vessels, while capable of accelerating up to nearly 0.95c, were designed with built in safe-guards to prevent the engines from accelerating the ship past 0.05c, to avoid the effects of significant Lorentz Contraction. Some more desperate or daring ship commanders were known to initiate short, in-system FTL jumps, but this was rarely a good idea for a number of reasons. FTL jumps were difficult to control precisely enough to avoid an overshoot of your target, and even a deviation of a half a percent could put a vessel millions of kilometers away from its intended destination. More than that, Mass Effect FTL drives were incapable of operating within a certain distance of a significant source of gravity (such as planets), due to their effects on the geometry of local space-time, usually limited to within one eighth of an AU distance from a planet the size and density of Earth and within three AU of a star the size and density of Sol.

Finally though, battle was joined. The outermost position of the tight frigate spheres of the Human fleet engaged with waves of Turian fighter and bomber groups as they closed in from all directions, intent on punching their way through to their respective targets within the human fleet to fire off their disruptor torpedoes. Their approach was supported by shots from the guns of the forward portion of the Turian frigate sphere, who were at last close enough to entertain the notion of scoring a successful hit on their counterparts with their main spinal kinetic energy cannons. As their formations approached ever closer, their plasma cannons likewise erupted in jets of super-heated death, while their particle weapons began taking potshots at guided projectiles and enemy fighters. The void between the two fleets became alive with bursts of light from shield impacts and core detonations as the might of two blood enemies slammed against each other, all the heavens erupting with the signs of their feuding as it had for decades prior.

As the frigates, bombers, and fighters battled for supremacy, a few million kilometers away the cruiser and battleship groups had begun their own melee. Walls of ships hummed mightily as their more powerful cannons and plasma weapons erupted in a spectacular display of sapient intelligence turned towards ends generally considered unworthy of the civilized. Standard combat tactics demanded that individual capital ship squadrons in wall formation, designated in individual "sections" of the wall, with each section focused on a designated target prioritized by position and tonnage. However, while the Terran fleet clung to this doctrine in the current battle, desperate to remove as many guns pointed at them as possible, the Turians had instead shifted to each individual ship targeting one vessel in the opposing formation, its current capability of bringing multiple wings of squadrons to bear on opposing walls thanks to their superior numbers making up for the normal overlapping firing vectors.

While the frigates battled it out, bombers attempted to use the distraction to make their attack runs. Despite the strain of multi-tasking, both defense spheres retained their tight formations. A handful slid through, but precious few to make their attack. A small force of human bombers managed to take advantage of the aggressive posture of the Turian fleet however. As Heideman had hoped, a couple of Hierarchy commodores had become somewhat overzealous in their pressing of the attack. As the center of the human battle line began to reverse itself slowly and alter orbital inclination at their Admiral's orders, two of the capital ship walls had begun to advance ahead of the main body of the fleet. This was a dangerously exposed position, placing their formations just outside of the cover of their frigate defenders, and it was the opening the humans needed. Two squadrons of Alliance bombers broke away from the engagement with the frigate spheres to attack these now exposed enemy ships. With no frigate cover, they were relatively easy targets, and the bombers let loose waves of "Shuriken" torpedoes.

The "Shurikens" were a brand new class of bomber weapons, fresh off the Alliance R&D whiteboards. Unlike the traditional disruptor torpedoes of the past, which traveled at a relative snail's pace to their targets due to the mass-increasing fields employed to slide through kinetic barriers, this new weapon employed a sophisticated VI and a larger eezo core, precisely controlling the mass effect field to rapidly switch between decreasing and increasing the mass of the weapon, ensuring it need not decrease in velocity to raise its mass until the last possible moment. As a result, the bombers were able to launch their torpedo waves at a much greater distance than their Turian counterparts, and ensured that a larger volume of them would elude enemy point-defense weapons, increasing the number of vessels they could target.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. Each bomber launched four Shurikens, for a total of ninety-six guided projectiles made speed towards their target. Without the cover of the frigate screen, their targets were forced to rely on their own, inferior point-defense systems. Over fifty of the torpedoes made it through and slammed into the Turian vessels. The two formations were devastated, with six cruisers and two battleships destroyed outright, and nearly two dozen other craft sustaining heavy damage of varying levels, taking them out of the fight for the foreseeable future.

It was however, a fleeting victory for the humans. The rest of the Turian squadron commanders held firm, and altered their armada formation to compensate for the losses. And despite the discipline of the captains and skill of the crew, holes began appearing in the human frigate sphere, as the vast armada of the Turians began to blow the smaller ships to pieces en-masse. The sheer weight of six carriers worth of combat craft made themselves known as well, and nearly four squadrons of Turian bombers managed to maneuver their way though these gaps and at last made way to their targets. Human fighters pursued, but the Turian escorts (which likewise slipped into the body of the fleet-formation proper) engaged their counterparts, distracting them long enough for what had to be done. As the Alliance cruisers and battleships quarreled desperately against their opposites, Hierarchy bombers began making similar attack runs. Though their range was far limited compared to the Human bombers, the nerve of their pilots ensured that the vast majority held firm and made range against their opponents. Ten Alliance capital ships suffered a similar fate to the preceding Turian vessels, and the gaps in their formations began to take a toll as the Turian capital ship guns started to wreak ever-increasing losses on the Human fleet.

However, the true coup de grace was yet to come, for the capital ship losses represented the efforts of only two of the four Turian fighter squadrons. The remaining made their runs against the true prize: the Terran Carriers.

_SSV Archimedes_

They had lost. It left a bitter taste in his mouth to admit it, but Heideman was not fool enough to deny reality when it stared him in the face. Though he had managed to draw in a couple of the more hot-headed commanders into the path of his torpedo bombers, the rest of the formation had held firm and their numbers were taking a sizable toll on his fleet. They had already lost more than thirty ships, and though his bombers had inflicted a sizable cost on his enemy and his own capital ships were doing an admirable job against their opponents, it was not enough. All that was left was to try and get his people to safety and live to fight another day.

That was going to be a challenge on its own merits though. Each vessel would need time to spool up its Mass Effect drives and plot FTL vectors. In order to avoid colliding with their adversaries, they would also have to maneuver into positions that would leave them with little to no capability of firing on their opponents. He needed someway to distract them, and fortunately he had just the...

He was suddenly jerked from his thoughts by the sound of something slamming into his hull, followed by a shearing sound vaguely reminiscent of the wailing of the damned. The reverberations shook the vessel and nearly threw him to the ground.

"Sir! Multiple torpedo hits!"

Damn, this was turning into a shit day.

"Damage report!"

"Ruptures on decks one through four and eight through thirteen. Internal fires detected. Engineering reports loss of power to sub-light engine three!"

"Seal off the ruptured decks, and get a repair team on the engines as soon as...!"

"Sir! The Newton!"

Glancing up at the view screen, the external cameras revealed the true death knell for their efforts here. The Newton, one of the earliest of the Einstein-class Carriers, erupted in a brilliant display of light, as the impacts of nearly twenty torpedoes at last took their toll. Entire sections of the once proud vessel were sheared and twisted by the rapidly oscillating mass effect fields of the disruptor missiles, until at last the structural integrity of the engineering section collapsed and the reactor safe-guards failed. A moment later, the inevitable happened, and in a brilliant flash of light marking the uncontrolled collision of matter and antimatter erupted in space and suddenly the mighty ship was no more.

All was silent on the bridge for a brief moment. The impact of watching one of the most venerable ships in the entire Terran Fleet go out in a blaze weighed upon each member of Heideman's bridge crew. All had friends on that ship, comrades from various military academies and tours of service. Heideman himself had been best man at Captain Audu's wedding all those years ago. They weren't the crew of a Flagship for nothing however, and the frantic activity returned almost immediately and Heideman gave his next order.

"Hail Captain M'Bala! Tell him to begin recalling his remaining fighters and however many of the Newton's squadrons he can fit in the next 15 minutes and prepare for FTL jump. Have all remaining combat craft return to the Archimedes, same time table and same orders! Immediately following, hail Wing Commander McKinsey and have her initiate _Monte Cristo!"_

"_Hellcat" Interceptor Group_

One of the most despised feelings for any intelligent being was the feeling of helplessness, the overpowering sensation of impotence in the face of tragedy or pain. This was doubly so for military men and women though, forced to watch as their comrades fought desperately for survival, wishing there was something they could do, but held back by the cruel necessity of orders from above. It was not the first time Wing Commander Elaine McKinsey had experienced such a feeling. A veteran of more than twelve years and numerous space-superiority battles, she had been held back by orders on more than one occasion from giving in to her instincts and rushing off the aid her brothers and sisters in arms by dictates of her superiors, reminding herself all the while that the mission came first, no matter the cost. A hard thing to sell yourself on as fellow humans perished in droves, but she was a professional above all else, and it had always been enough.

At last though, her pained reverie was interrupted by a message from the Archimedes.

"Wing Commander McKinsey! This is the Archimedes! Do you copy, over?!"

"McKinsey here! We are reading you, over!"

"Wing Commander! You are hereby ordered to initiate _Monte Cristo! _Confirm orders,over!"

McKinsey blinked in surprise a moment, a blank look coming over her face as she tried to process what she had just heard.

"Wing Commander! Confirm orders, over!"

Confirm orders?! Orders to condemn herself to death, and all those under her command? For a moment, rage filled her. How dare they? How dare they order this of her?! Of them?! This too passed, however, and the professional, pragmatic part of her mind asserted itself. It was necessary. Horrible, yes, almost unconscionable, but necessary. They would die, but with luck, the fleet would escape, and far more lives would be saved in the end. Realistically, there was no choice. Her stages of grief lasted all of about three seconds.

"Orders confirmed Archimedes! Initiating _Monte Cristo!_ Attack run to begin immediately, over!"

"Confirmed Wing Commander! Good hunting, and as a personal aside, give those bastards a good fucking! _Victoria ad Terram!"_

In spite of the solemnity of the circumstances, McKinsey had to smile a bit at that. She immediately switched her comm system to the squadron frequency.

"Interceptor squadron commanders! Have your wings assume staggered delta formations about bomber wings! Groups One through three, positive inclination twenty-two degrees! Four through six, negative inclination, eighteen degrees. Bomber squadrons, begin your run. At my mark, engage afterburners!"

A chorus of "ayes!" greeted her as the combat craft began their agile ballet into their designated coordinates. This gave McKinsey a brief few minutes to glance at the picture she kept in her cockpit. A simple, photo, taken with a vintage Kodak camera so she could have it framed, containing an image of her two greatest loves in all the void: Mary, her wife of nearly six years, her jet black hair contrasting beautifully with her fair skin and the simple white dress she wore, and their son Joshua, just a week after his second birthday, smiling brightly at his first ever taste of watermelon. She lifted her hand slowly and placed a gentle finger upon the face of her lover, so many thousands of light years away, willing herself to remember the feeling of her spouse's skin warming her on a chilled night, the sound of her child's laughter at the funny faces only she could get just right, the overwhelming, terrifying magnitude of the love and happiness she felt on the day of her union to this amazing woman and the day said woman gave birth to their perfect, precious boy.

Blinking away furious tears, her mind racing with the thoughts of the unfairness of it all, the things left unsaid, and the moments she would never be there for, she was cruelly roused from thoughts of those she fought so furiously to protect by the confirmation signals pouring in from the various squadron leaders. It was time. Uttering one last plea to her beloved and their child, begging their forgiveness for leaving them alone in the world, she flipped on her comm system once more.

"I'll keep this short and simple. We all know we're not going to walk away from this one. Our time has come, and the fleet depends on our sacrifice. Each and everyone of you has proven yourselves a thousand times over, and for that you have my gratitude. Ladies, gentleman...it has been an honor. Now, lets turn these skull-faced shits into a funeral pyre bright enough to light us a path to Elysium!"

A chorus of cheers rang out through the comms, and the assortment of bombers and interceptors at last moved out from the debris field and kicked on their afterburners, bypassing the engine safeguards with a single, continuous burn of most of their remaining fuel, blazing a trail to their enemies and final destiny. Dead-air reigned for the first few minutes of their journey before someone decided to break the now moot radio silence.

"Hey McKinsey! What was that old war song you always sang back in flight school? You know, the one you always hummed to yourself before you beat everyone in combat drills!"

McKinsey smirked at her comm. Ahmed had been flying alongside her for years, he damn well knew the name of the song by now. Oh, well. They were going to die soon anyway, so what the hell?

"_The minstrel boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you will find him. His father's sword he hath girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him..."_

In an instant, all the rest of her comrades joined in, one last battle hymn for one last ride to glory.

"_LAND OF SONG SAID THE WARRIOR BARD, THO ALL THE WORLD BETRAYS THEE. ONE SWORD, AT LEAST, THY RIGHTS SHALL GUARD..."_

_HCS Undaunted_

Admiral Tyranus found himself suffering from mixed feelings. Oh sure, the battle was swinging his way and he knew it wouldn't be long before the remainder of the human fleet would be forced to either withdraw or be completely destroyed. On the other hand, he was disappointed that the two commodores who had ordered the _Talon _and _Knivel _battle squadrons beyond the protection of the frigate screens had perished in the process. He would have much preferred the two fools had survived so he could have them court-martialed and publicly flogged for ignoring his orders to maintain the armada formation and getting so many of his people killed.

Despite these losses, however, things were more or less proceeding according to plan. The rest of his fleet (made up competent commanders who could follow their Titans-damned orders) held firm, re-positioning themselves slightly to compensate for the loss of the two squadrons and faring quite well against the smaller Alliance fleet. His own casualties, while somewhat higher than predicted, were still more or less acceptable...

"Admiral! Detecting fighter and bomber craft approaching Carrier group on attack vectors!"

Tyranus glanced over in confusion. The battle was occurring on the opposite end of the system. It would take hours for attack craft to reach the Carrier group, and attempting to do so would leave them exposed to intercept.

"ETA?"

"Thirty minutes sir!"

For a moment, Tyranus was silent, his brain trying to comprehend the unreal, terrible words he had just heard. It passed quickly enough though.

"What are you saying?! Those ships are over a light-hour away at least!"

"No sir! Detecting multiple squadrons of human attack craft, traveling at nearly 0.65c just over fifteen light-minutes from our positions!"

For the first time in his career, indeed the entirety of his living memory, Tyranus found himself panicking ever so slightly. A strange sensation, indeed had the situation been different he might have taken some time to try and recall what moment in his life this emotion was familiar from.

'_How, how was this happening?! How could they possibly have gotten attack craft so close to their position without anyone notice...'_

"The missiles."

"Sir?!"

"The fusion missiles they fired several hours ago. It wasn't to disrupt fleet formation. It was to hide these attack craft from our sensors as they inched closer to our position!"

For a moment, no one said a word. What was there to say? They had been played like a group of first year cadets?

"Order immediate pursuit! Any available frigate and fighter squadrons, break off and go after them! Helm, take us to the edge of the system and spool up the FTL drive!"

A futile gesture and they all knew it. Those bombers had engaged their afterburners, clearly uninterested in survival only in inflicting as much damage as possible on their adversaries. They would reach the carriers long before their opposing number could engage them and long before their targets would manage to move to a distance which would put them far enough from the center of the Mjolnir gravity well to engage FTL. All that was to be done now was attempt to minimize the damage and ensure that none of those attack craft would survive this kamikaze run.

A small number of Turian fighters had remained behind on-board the Hierarchy Carriers, due to needed repairs and standard combat doctrine of maintaining at least a token defense for their motherships, but it was far insufficient. Tyranus had committed the entirety of his fleet to this, in accordance with standard Turian combat doctrine of attacking with overwhelming force, relying on the distance between the two fleets as defense. In any other situation, this would have been a wise move, but it relied on one very important assumption: that your opponent planned to walk away alive. There were no frigates to guard them, only a minimal interceptor force now making its way in a slim hope that they might slow their opponents down long enough for them to make their escape.

_Na'Thak Interceptor Group_

One of the greatest myths of the galaxy, one which the Hierarchy was proud to let spread throughout civilization, was the belief that the Turians did not know fear. And it was an easy thing to convince people of. The iron will of the Turian military was legendary, their boast of never letting the enemy see their backs held true almost without exception until their war with the Alliance, and only rarely after that. But the truth was, they knew fear, just as well as any of the other intelligent biologicals that roamed the galaxy. Only idiots were without fear, and Turians weren't idiots, no matter what propaganda humans conjured up or what stereotypes other chose to believe due to their excessively militaristic inclinations.

No, what the Turians had as a near universal trait was discipline; stringent, implacable discipline, drilled into every Turian youth from the moment he or she joined boot camp at age fifteen until they died in service to the state. And discipline was something else entirely, almost (from a certain perspective) a kind of self-induced Dissociate Identity Disorder, in which the brain identified the fear it was feeling and what was causing it, shrugged its metaphorical shoulders and said "fuck it, lets march into that hail of gunfire over there." A useful skill for a soldier, and at the moment, it was all that was keeping Quientus and his twelve compatriots on course for the Human fighter squadrons bearing down on their position.

"Lucantus, Karo! Shorten planar inclinations, you're moving out of formation!"

"Copy that commander! Reducing inclinations!"

"Understood! Now listen up! Based on what we've seen today, the apes have got some new type of bomber weapon which nearly triples their range. They'll likely maintain their speed until the last possible moment to fire, so we'll have to hit them as soon as they've decelerated to 0.5c! Their fighters will be decelerating with them though, so get ready for a brawl! Target priorities are those bombers, we cannot let them launch their missiles! Estimated time to contact, twelve minutes!"

Twelve minutes, of waiting for the oncoming storm. A lot of time to think. About the futility of their actions, the cost of the war, what their apparent last meal had been. But most of all, about regrets. And oh did Squadron Commander Quientus have regrets. That he would never see his mother and father again, so filled with pride in their heroic, warrior sons, serving for years in the fleet with distinction. That he would never again sit with his brother and sister-in-law, talking about nothing of importance during those brief, happy days when they all found themselves together on Aephus during leave. That he would never again hear his darling niece shriek in joy when she saw her "Uncle Quientus" coming to visit and leap into his arms in embrace. But, most of all, he regretted that he would never see **Her** again.

His hand idly played with the ceramic beads circling his left wrist. Promise stones they were called, an oath between lovers to one day be bonded, when the time was right. They were both young, with so much to do and so much to see. He had always thought there would be more time.

"_I'm so sorry Corliana. Please forgive me, I was such a fool."_

But no matter his regrets, he knew his duty. If those bombers punched through, Titans only knew how many Turian lives would be lost. Even if it was a fools errand, they had to try and stop them. Sighing wearily, he glanced at his scanners. It was time.

"Brothers. Sisters. Now is the end of watch. You know your duty, and I was proud to fly with you to battle. You are worthy soldiers all, never forget that. Now lets give these hopped-up pyjack fuckers a taste of Turian steel! FOR THE CAUSE!"

The skirmish was fierce but brief. The Turians held their position until the velocity of the enemy formation fell to just under one half c, and shot forward on full afterburners. Once solid locks were confirmed on the enemy bombers, they launched their ship-to-ship "Kival" missiles. Unfortunately, they were grossly under-armed due to the effort to scramble them into battle as quickly as possible, and the enemy ECM was highly effective, allowing the bombers to evade any missile they couldn't outmaneuver. In the end, only two of the Human bombers were destroyed by their assault.

Their adversaries weren't idle however. The forward formation of Alliance interceptors launched their own barrage of missiles at the incoming Hierarchy attack craft before one of their squadrons broke off to engage in dog-fighting. Six Turian attack craft were destroyed by the projectiles and the rest quickly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of particle cannon fire from their numerically superior adversaries. All told, they had delayed the human attack run by roughly seven minutes.

In short order, the human bombers were in range. Three squadrons of twelve bombers each launched their armament of four anti-ship "Shuriken" missiles at the Turian carriers making best speed for the edge of the system. Over one hundred and forty of the lethal projectiles lurched forward at velocities long ago unthinkable, their powerful anti-proton drives hurtling them silently through the void between the two blood enemies. The Carriers desperately tried to fight the inevitable, cycling their ECM fields through every setting the VI's could conceive of and their point defense cannons fired wildly at every torpedo it could target. An admirable effort, destroying more than half of the weapons thanks to the overlapping point defense firing arcs of the Carriers.

In the end, though, it was all for naught, with the Carriers designed to rely on its fighters for protection, not it's ship-board weapons. The missiles slammed into four of the carriers in waves, tearing entire sections pieces apart like tin foil and causing bursts of light to jet out from the ships as catastrophic decompression tore through the mighty vessels. Careful observers could also take note (no doubt with a touch of horror) of the sight of dozens of Turian sailors being sucked to their death in the vacuum of space. A ghastly sight for anyone, sympathies for the Hierarchy notwithstanding, but the worst was yet to come.

Shortly following the barrage, three of the most heavily hit carriers came to a complete stop, their engines and maneuvering no longer functioning as engineering crews lost their battle with the power failures occurring all over their ships. They began to list aimlessly in space as the gravity of the Mjolnir neutron star took over their powers of locomotion. Suddenly, one of carriers began to hemorrhage small objects all across its surface. Escape pods no doubt, as the crew desperately tried to escape what was to come. A moment later, it came. A single, brilliant flash of light marked the passing of one of the Turian's mightiest vessels into memory and legend. A grim mirror of the fate that had fallen the Newton not one hour ago.

_HCS Undaunted_

Tyranus slowly pulled himself to his feet, his ribs and joints aching with every inch. Idly noting the blood dripping slowly from a severe cut on his head and a burning in his now broken talon, he took a minute to survey his battered bridge. Nearby, some the members of his crew still conscious were desperately trying to maintain ship systems, using crude analog keyboard back-ups to perform their duties with the holographic interfaces shorted out. Others were tending to the injured and unconscious, attempting desperately to keep them from slipping into a coma, all the while a distant voice was battering its way through his throbbing skull.

"...Admiral?! Do you need medical attention?!"

Slowly turning his head, Tyranus took note of the young woman beside him. His first officer, Elora. Thank the Titans she survived, it would have been hell trying to replace someone of her ability.

"I don't need medical attention Commander. Though I could do with a status update."

Elora eyed him carefully a moment, trying to determine how much of his poise was just a front, before answering.

"Engines and maneuvering thrusters are down sir, perhaps for good. The flight deck has been completely torn from the main body of the fleet and we have sixty percent power loss. Internal fires are ravaging more than a third of the ship and fire suppression systems are functioning sporadically. One hundred and seven are dead, eighty three are wounded and thirty six unaccounted for."

A strange thing to feel numb to. Tyranus strongly suspected it was the Sersalin* pumping through his nervous-system to keep his nerves from erupting in agony. The rage would probably hit him later in a hospital bed.

"Contact commodore Lucian. He has to keep pressing the attack, we can't let this dela..."

Elora's slow shakes of her head silenced his rambling orders.

"Unfortunately, communications are down as well Sir, and probably won't be fixed until engineering is certain our life-support systems won't fail unexpectedly. Likely a few hours minimum till anyone hears anything from us."

Ugh, wretched numbness. Even more irritating than spitting rage. It made him think too clearly. With communications down on the flagship, the rest of the fleet would most likely halt its advance to determine if the chain of command had to be reshuffled following the human's suicidal attack. If the Alliance acted quickly enough, it could probably make good its escape with minimal further losses and regroup to mount a defense elsewhere. Not that they would be pursuing any time soon. Even if they did end up getting enough reinforcements and supply ships to press the attack to other sectors in the Cluster, they wouldn't be going anywhere with the majority of their carriers in the Cluster out of commission.

Muttering one last, half-halfhearted curse at his adversary on the Human flagship, Tyranus at last caved to the ceaseless badgering of his first officer and ceded control of the bridge so as to make his way to the infirmary. He would need a clear head to explain this Pyrrhic success to his superiors, and a stiff drink after.

_SSV Archimedes_

"Admiral! The Turians have ceased their advance. They've taken a stationary position between us and Mjolnir!"

Heideman released a breath he had forgotten he was holding. He had given the order nearly half an hour ago for his fleet to engage their maneuvering thrusters to start backing away slowly from their opponents as soon as the fighters and bombers were on deck, allowing them to test the waters of a withdrawal while keeping their guns pointed at the Turian formations. Initially, the Hierarchy fleet had advanced forward, keeping them within range of their mass-accelerators and torpedo launchers, but apparently had abruptly ceased their pursuit. No doubt thanks to the efforts of Wing Commander McKinsey and her comrades. Muttering a silent promise to posthumously recommend them for every medal and commendation the Alliance Navy had, he gave the order.

"Once we are outside their effective weapons range, have every ship plot an escape vector to the edge of the system, engage FTL, and regroup in the Svalinn System. Once the Mass Effect drive has engaged, contact Arcturus Station and inform them that we have been forced to withdraw from the Mjolnir System."

Lieutenant Awad carried out his orders with the usual efficiency Heideman had come to expect over the years, and within seconds he could feel the hum of the ship's engines, limping them as quickly as possible from his defeat. It had been a grim day all things considered. Fifty-one ships, nearly a fourth of his fleet, had been lost today. Though only about forty had been destroyed outright, nearly a dozen had been too damaged to join the withdrawal, and had chosen the now standard recourse of both scuttled Human and Turian vessel alike when the opposing fleet won: self-destruction. A heavy toll for any man to take. And while he was unreservedly proud of both his crew and the ships under his command, and new he had done all that he could, it was unlikely he would fall asleep tonight without seeing a mass of tormented human faces, reminding him of the cost of his failure.

About an hour later, the Alliance Mjolnir Fleet at last made it beyond the influence of the gravity well. Their FTL vectors set, the fleet disappeared in a flash of universe-bending technical prowess, the floating debris of their shattered combat vessels the only sign they had ever been there. Further into the system, the main force of the Turian interceptor squadrons made contact with the "Hellcat" squadrons. After a ferocious battle and an attempted kamikaze run by the remaining bombers against the oncoming frigate formation, Wing Commander McKinsey and her comrades were added to the debris field of the Neutron Star, which all the while had continued to spin upon its axis, ambivalent and unconcerned to the surrounding carnage.

It was over. For whatever it was worth, the Hierarchy now commanded the Mjolnir System.

* * *

><p>*Basically the Turian equivalent of endorphins. They evolved on a different planet after all.<p>

Hope you all enjoyed that. This was a little gift to all my loyal readers (assuming I still have any) who have been so patiently waiting for me to update. Hope to have a proper chapter out in the next few weeks. In the meantime: read, review, and feel free to mention me on TV Tropes!


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